THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
JAMBS   J.  MC   BRIDE 


'HE  RED   .ANE 


A     ROMANCE     OF     THE     BORDER 


BY 

H  OLMAN     DAY 

AUTHOR  OF 

'KING  SPRUCE"  "THE  RAMRODDERS" 
'THE  SKIPPER  AND  THE  SKIPPED"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER  6-  BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

MCMX I  I 


BOOKS  BY 
HOLMAN     DAY 

THE  RED  LANE.     Post  8vo net  $1.35 

THE  SKIPPER  AND  THE  SKIPPED.     Post  8vo   .     1.50 

THE  RAMRODDBRS.     Post  8vo 1.50 

KING  SPRUCE.     IH'd.     Post  8vo 1.50 

THE  EAGLE'S  BADGE.     IH'd.     Post  8vo.     .     .     1.25 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS,  N.  Y. 


COPYRIGHT.    I»I2.    »Y    HARPER   ft    BROTHERS 

PRINTED   IN  THE   UNITED   STATES  OF  AMERICA 

PUBLISHED  JULY.    1012 

I-M 


TO    MY  DEAR    FRIEND 
BURTON     SMITH,    A.M. 

WHO.  AS  CHIEF  DEPUTY  UNITED  STATES 
MARSHAL  FOR  THE  DISTRICT  OF  MAINE.  DURING 
QUARTER  OF  A  CENTURY.  HAS  KNOWN  IN  ITS 
VERITY  THE  BORDER  LIFE  WITH  WHICH  I 
HAVE  TAKEN  THE  LIBERTIES  OF  ROMANCE 


712930 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

I.  WHEN  EVANGELINE  CAME  HOME , 

II.  THE  COURIER  OF  THREE  THOUSAND  SHEEP 

III.  BY  THE  HANDS  OF  BEAULIEU'S  GIRL  .     .    .    . 

IV.  THE  SPIRIT  OF  OLD  ACADIA , 

V.  DOWN  THE  WORLD  WITH  BILLEDEAU  .     .    .    .    , 

VI.  THE  ANCIENT  PROBLEM  OF  THE  CROWDED  LAND  , 

VII.  AT  THE  WEDDING  OF  SUPPLE  JACK'S  BOY  .    .    , 

VIII.  AN  EDICT  IN  ACADIA 

IX.  THE  PARISH  OF  GOOD  FATHER  LECLAIR      .    .    , 

X.  THE  PACT  OF  THE  ORCHARD 

XI.  THE  FUNERAL  PYRE  OF  ACADIAN  HOPES     .    .    , 

XII.  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  PERE  LECLAIR , 

XIII.  How  VETAL  BEAULIEU  MADE  His  WILL     .    .    , 

XIV.  THE  TRIALS  OF  A  KNIGHT-ERRANT      .    .    .    .    , 

XV.  THE  SEVEN  DOGS  OF  WAR , 

XVI.  THE  TRAIL  OF  VETAL  BEAULIEU 

XVII.  THE  BITTER  WORD  FOR  ATTEGAT 

XVIII.  THE  MEN  WHO  RODE  THROUGH  THE  NIGHT    .    , 

XIX.  THE  DRAFTING  OF  BILLEDEAU 

XX.  THE  JOURNEY  OF  BILLEDEAU 

XXI.  THE  JUDAS  OF  ATTEGAT 

XXII.  THE  THREAT  OF  THE  SINISTER  HUNDRED     .    .    . 

XXIII.  ATTEGAT  IN  BATTLE  ARRAY 

XXIV.  THE  JOAN  OF  ATTEGAT 

XXV.  A  RAGGED  FAIRY  GODFATHER 

XXVI.  THE  PICTURES  THE  BISHOP  SAW 

XXVII.  VETAL  BEAULIEU'S  HIDING-PLACE 

XXVIII.  FOR  THE  KILLING  OF  VETAL  BEAULIEU  .    .    .    . 

XXIX.  THE  GREAT  FLOOD  OF  THE  ST.  JOHN 

XXX.  How  ACADIA  PAID  A  DEBT 

XXXI.  THE  GIFTS  IN  THE  LAP  OF  JUNE 


PACK 

i 
ii 

25 

42 

53 

65 

79 

94 

105 

126 

137 
145 
154 
169 
181 
200 
218 
230 
245 
257 
274 
288 
301 
315 
324 
336 
344 
355 
367 
380 

389 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"l  AM  HURT!"   HE  GASPED Frontispiece 

ANAXAGORAS   BILLEDEAU   CAME    FIDDLING    THROUGH   THE 

DROWSY   NOON Facing  p.    54 

"MY  DARLING!"  HE  GASPED.  "HOLD  TIGHT!  WE'RE 

SAFE!"  "  196 

"l,  AN  ACADIAN  GIRL,  APPEAL  TO  YOU  FROM  THE  DEPTHS 

OF  MY  SOUL" "  320 


THE     RED     LANE 


THE  RED  LANE 


WHEN  EVANGELINE   CAME   HOME 

HE  Red  Lane  is  neither  road  nor  route. 
It  is  an  institution — it  is  smuggling.  Ijts 
thousand  avenues  are  now  here,  now  there. 
The  Red  Lane  crossed  the  border  at 
Beaulieu's  Place  this  night. 

The  Lane  was  blatantly  open.     They 
who  came  along  it  were  unabashed,  unafraid. 

Great  wains  rumbled  and  creaked  on  the  hard  clay  road 
which  led  through  Monarda  clearing.  Teamsters  shouted 
at  straining  horses,  and  bellowed  their  songs.  From  east 
to  west  the  procession  moved — from  Canada  into  the  States. 
The  plot  had  been  ripened  carefully,  the  word  had  gone 
out  to  the  smugglers,  the  season's  "killing"  was  on  in 
earnest. 

There  were  potatoes,  there  were  oats  and  general 
produce  of  farms — commodities  cheap  on  one  side  of  the 
line,  but  made  valuable  by  the  magic  of  passing  an  iron 
monument  set  in  a  granite  block  at  the  side  of  a  woodland 
highway.  The  iron  post  marked  where  free  trade  ended 
and  the  tariff  began.  It  might  be  said  to  mark  the  tomb 
where  Reciprocity  was  buried !  It  was  the  boundary  post. 


THE    RED   LANE 

Droves  of  cattle  shuffled  along  the  clay  road  in  the 
gloom.  Sheep  and  horses  came,  too. 

Given  five  hundred  miles  of  frontier  in  a  customs  dis 
trict — woods  and  water  at  the  edge  of  things — and  depu 
ties  cannot  frustrate  all  the  tricks  of  the  smugglers. 

Deputies  are  few  and  scattered.  The  smugglers  are 
many  and  persistent.  And  their  stratagems  are  many, 
too.  About  once  in  so  often  the  great  coup  is  executed — 
the  Red  Lane  is  thrown  wide.  No  lawbreaker  is  furtive 
and  fearful  that  night. 

This  night  it  monopolized  the  highway  through  Monarda 
clearing  past  Beaulieu's  Place. 

The  deputies  had  herded  and  run  north  chasing  rumor. 
They  had  been  carefully  fooled.  The  smugglers  are  good 
for  at  least  two  new  ruses  in  a  season.  And  when  it  was 
certain  that  the  deputies  were  chasing  the  false  scent  in 
the  north,  then  promptly  along  the  clay  road  of  Monarda 
was  the  Red  Lane  opened,  and  the  oats,  the  potatoes,  the 
sheep,  the  cattle,  the  boxes  of  this,  and  the  barrels  of  that 
which  the  smugglers  had  been  hiding  at  points  of  vantage 
for  weeks,  all  came  across  in  gay  and  noisy  procession. 

Beaulieu's  Place  is  an  institution  on  the  border  as  well  as 
the  Red  Lane,  for  the  Monarda  road  is  a  thoroughfare 
which  unites  populous  sections. 

One  of  the  popular  "  Come-all-ye "  songs  of  the  border 
celebrates  Beaulieu's  Place.  Men  who  ride  high  on  the 
joggling  seats  of  the  great  wains  bawl  it  lustily  and  with  a 
zest  of  declaration  which  indicates  that  its  sentiments  are 
approved. 

Come  all  ye  teamster  lads  so  bold,  oh,  come  along  with  me! 
We'll  whoa  the  nags  at  Beaulieu's  Place  where  the  morson  flows 

so  free. 

Give  us  a  drink  of  good  white  rum  and  we  do  not  care  a  damn 
For  all  of  the  Yankee  customs  sneaks  who  work  for  Uncle  Sam. 


HOME 

Red  Lane, 

Red  Lane — 

That's  the  road  for  me. 

And  not  one  cent  of  duty 

For  the  country  of  the  free. 

Beaulieu's  broad  door  of  planks  was  wide  open.  The 
light  of  smoky  lamps  splashed  upon  the  gloom  at  door  and 
dingy  windows. 

Teams  halted  in  the  broad  yard  and,  while  the  sweating 
horses  puffed,  the  drivers  flocked  in  noisy  comradeship 
in  the  big,  low  room  where  Vetal  Beaulieu  sold  to  all  who 
were  thirsty. 

Men  who  were  not  teamsters  were  there.  There  were 
woodsmen  who  were  spending  their  money  in  prolonged 
debauch.  Little  knots  of  them  clung  together,  wavering 
on  unsteady  feet,  wailing  hoarse  choruses. 

One  group  was  persecuting  a  "jumper" — a  French 
Canadian  who  leaped  and  screamed  and  flailed  his  arms 
about  him  whenever  a  tormentor  yelled  sharp  command 
to  "Strike!"  When  the  "jumper"  drove  his  fist  against 
some  unwary  man's  face,  great  laughter  convulsed  the 
bystanders. 

Tobacco  smoke  in  whorls  and  strata  drifted  above  the 
heads  of  the  men. 

Only  one  man  in  the  room  was  silent,  sober,  saturnine. 
This  was  Vetal  Beaulieu,  sturdy  little  publican  with 
bowed  legs,  a  crisp,  grizzled  beard  masking  all  his  lower 
face.  His  hard  eyes  took  all  in.  His  hand,  dripping  with 
liquors,  stuffed  bills  and  coins  into  his  trousers  pockets. 

There  were  crackers  in  plates  upon  a  huge  truck,  or 
table  on  wheels.  This  was  in  the  center  of  the  big  room. 
There  was  cheese  in  plates.  There  were  many  bottles 
and  a  few  jugs  on  the  wheeled  table.  Whisky  in  queerly 
blown  glass  bottles  which  resembled  dumb-bells,  gin  ic 

3 


THE    RED    LANE 

high-shouldered  bottles,  rum  in  tall,  goose-necked  bottles 
which  were  labeled  ' '  Vieux  Rhum. ' '  There  were  decanters, 
glasses,  and  the  impedimenta  of  a  bar,  all  disposed  on  the 
wheeled  table,  or  truck. 

The  truck  was  astride  a  line  done  in  dingy  paint.  The 
big  room  was  bisected  by  that  line. 

One  end  of  the  room  was  decorated  with  English  flags 
which  surrounded  a  chromo  of  the  ruling  British  sovereign. 

The  other  end  of  the  room  displayed  a  picture  of  the 
President  of  the  United  States,  draped  liberally  with 
dingy  specimens  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 

Such  was  Beaulieu's  Place,  most  widely  celebrated  of 
all  the  border  resorts.  Its  habitues  knew  that  the  dingy 
line  of  paint  marked  the  boundary  between  two  countries. 
The  broad,  low  building  squatted  squarely  on  the  line.  It 
was  not  a  mere  whim  on  Beaulieu's  part  which  located  it 
thus  impartially.  That  wheeled  truck  with  its  load  of 
liquors  suggested  a  reason. 

Prohibition  held  sway  on  one  side  of  the  line. 

There  were  the  King's  excise  tolls  on  the  other. 

Only  once  in  the  history  of  Beaulieu's  Place  had  the 
officers  of  both  nations  been  able  to  agree  and  descend 
simultaneously.  Then,  after  dividing  startled  gaze  be 
tween  them,  Vetal  had  centered  his  truck  on  the  median 
line  pf  the  room,  straddled  that  line  himself,  folded  his 
arms  and  waited.  He  reckoned  safely  on  the  jealousy  of 
nations.  The  officers  had  fallen  into  such  prompt  dispute 
over  honors  and  spoils  of  war  that  they  finally  departed 
their  several  ways,  leaving  Vetal  astride  his  paint  streak, 
his  stock  of  liquors  unmolested. 

"Balance"  Beaulieu,  so  some  of  the  folks  nicknamed 
him. 

They  did  not  apply  that  epithet  in  his  hearing.  Men 
bespoke  him  softly  as  one  having  wealth  and  one  who 

4 


HOME 

pressed  the  heavy  thumb  of  a  mortgage  on  many  scores  of 
little  farms  up  and  down  the  broad  valley  of  the  St.  John. 

The  Monarda  stage  was  late  that  night.  Its  route  was 
from  the  east  toward  the  west,  from  the  Province  into  the 
States.  Here  and  there  its  grumbling  driver  took  ad 
vantage  of  a  broad  place  and  lashed  his  horses  around 
a  heavy  wagon  or  bumped  past  through  the  gutter,  risking 
axles  and  wheels.  Droves  of  animals  blocked  the  road, 
bewildered  in  the  night,  stupidly  crowding  together  in  the 
middle  of  the  highway. 

The  old  stage-driver,  weazened  French  Canadian,  fre 
quently  shuttled  his  chin  over  his  shoulder  and  apologized 
to  his  one  passenger. 

"I  forget  and  talk  some  bad  talk,  Mam'selle.  But  it's 
very  much  trouble  on  the  Monarda  road  this  night .  Those 
who  are  breaking  the  law,  they  don't  care  if  the  mails  do 
not  get  through  on  time." 

The  passenger  did  not  reply.  From  the  moment  the 
driver  had  told  her  that  these  men  whose  cattle  and  teams 
filled  the  road  were  smugglers,  she  had  cowered  in  the 
shadow  of  one  of  the  coach's  old  curtains.  She  could  not 
see  their  faces  in  the  June  night.  But  they  were  law 
breakers.  They  inspired  fear.  The  drovers  yelled  oaths 
at  their  charges.  The  teamsters  beat  their  horses  and 
cursed  delays. 

"We  shall  do  much  better  after  we  get  past  Beaulieu's 
Place,  Mam'selle.  They  do  not  keep  to  the  highroad 
when  they  get  past  there  and  are  in  the  Yankee  country. 
Ah,  then  they  hide  in  the  woods  and  follow  the  narrow 
lanes.  We  shall  have  the  highroad  to  ourselves  when 
we  get  past  Beaulieu's  Place.  We  shall  hurry  and  make 
up  the  time  we  have  lost,"  he  chattered,  consolingly. 

"I  have  told  you  that  I  am  to  stop  at  Monsieur  Beau 
lieu's." 

2  5 


THE    RED   LANE 

"Ah,  but  that  is  not  at  Beaulieu's  Place.  No,  that 
cannot  be,  Mam'selle.  No,  you  are  to  stop  at  Beaulieu's 
of  the  mill — Felix  Beaulieu's,  eh?" 

"I  do  not  know  Felix  Beaulieu.  It  is  at  Vetal  Beau 
lieu's  where  I  shall  get  down  from  the  stage." 

They  were  climbing  a  hill,  and  the  horses  were  walking. 
He  had  taken  this  opportunity  to  talk  to  her,  for  the  road 
was  clear  for  a  space. 

He  turned  squarely  around  and  stared,  trying  to  see  her 
face. 

"It's  the  queer  mistake  you  have  made,  I  think,"  he 
assured  her.  "There  is  only  one  Vetal  Beaulieu  on  the 
Monarda  road,  and  you  would  not  be  going  there." 

"But  Vetal  Beaulieu  is  my  father — and  I  am  going 
there." 

He  snapped  his  gaze  away  and  was  silent  for  a  time, 
wrinkling  his  brow  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  trying  to 
remember  just  what  he  had  been  saying. 

At  last,  without  turning  his  head,  he  asked,  meekly: 
"You  have  been  away  from  home,  eh,  some  time,  Mam' 
selle?  I  have  drive  past  Beaulieu's  many  times,  and  I  have 
never  seen  you." 

"  I  have  been  at  the  convent  school  of  St.  Basil  for  many 
years — ever  since  my  mother  died.  I  was  a  very  little 
girl  when  she  died.  I  have  never  been  home  since.  My 
father  said  it  was  better  for  me  at  the  school.  He  is  a 
very  good  father — he  has  been  to  visit  me  many  times." 

"So  he  has  now  sent  for  you  to  come  home,  eh?"  he 
inquired,  breaking  another  long  silence. 

She  smiled  and  indulged  his  curiosity,  understanding 
her  people. 

"My  father  did  not  send  for  me.  But  I  have  learned 
all  the  lessons  the  good  sisters  can  teach  me.  It  is  the 
duty  of  a  daughter  to  come  home  and  make  that  home 

6 


HOME 

happy  for  a  father  who  has  been  alone  all  these  years.     I 
have  not  said  I  was  coming.     It  is  to  be  a  surprise." 

He  nodded,  gazing  straight  ahead. 

"Yes,  it  is  to  be  a  surprise,  Mam'selle." 

"I  have  offered  to  come  home  before  this.  I  have 
wanted  to  be  of  some  help  to  my  father.  But  he  has  said 
I  must  not  sacrifice  for  his  sake.  Yet,  it  is  no  sacrifice  for 
a  daughter  to  make  home  happier  for  her  father." 

"It  is  a  quiet  place,  that  St.  Basil  convent — quiet 
place  and  far  from  here,  eh,  Mam'selle?" 

"Yes." 

The  horses  had  topped  the  hill  and  were  trotting  down 
the  other  side.  There  were  more  teams  ahead,  more 
troubles,  and  he  did  not  speak  until  the  road  was  clear  once 
again. 

"They  are  not  very  interest,  eh,  in  the  news,  those  good 
sisters  and  the  girls  at  the  convent  of  St.  Basil?  They 
do  not  talk  about  what  goes  on  outside?" 

"There  is  no  gossip  there,  Monsieur." 

"But  I  think  they  must  say  something  to  you  about 
your  father — how  Vetal  Beaulieu  has  made  the  very  much 
money — how  he  is  the  rich  man?"  he  floundered. 

"No,  I  only  know  he  is  a  good  man  who  has  given  me 
education  and  has  made  my  life  happy.  Now  I  am  going 
home  to  help  him." 

The  old  driver's  narrow  limits  of  tactful  inquiry  had  been 
reached.  He  flicked  his  horses,  and  they  hurried  on. 
He  muttered  constantly,  but  the  rattling  of  the  wheels  did 
not  let  her  hear. 

"  I  think  the  good  sisters  of  St.  Basil  have  not  teach  her 
something  she  ought  to  know,"  was  the  burden  of  his 
soliloquy.  "For,  if  she  thinks  that  Vetal  Beaulieu  is  the 
fine  man,  she  will  have  the  heartbreak  before  this  night  is 
over." 

7 


THE    RED    LANE 

When  the  stage  reached  Monarda  clearing  he  steered 
his  horses  through  the  tangle  of  heavy  wagons  and  halted 
near  the  door.  Inside,  voices  babbled,  men  howled 
choruses,  laughter  and  oaths  and  obscenity  mingled. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Mam'selle,"  said  the  old  driver. 
He  had  climbed  down  and  was  offering  her  his  hand. 
"I  have  try  to  think  something  which  I  could  say.  But 
I  am  only  a  poor  man — and  Vetal  Beaulieu  is  rich  and 
has  a  mortgage  on  my  little  house.  So  I  have  thought  it 
best  to  say  short  words  to  his  daughter  about  him.  I  am 
sorry,  Mam'selle!  I  have  brought  you  to  Vetal  Beaulieu's 
house." 

She  stared  at  the  dingy  windows  where  the  yellow  light 
splashed  the  night.  Dismay,  astonishment,  incertitude, 
even  frank  disbelief,  struggled  together  in  her  countenance. 

"  I  tell  you  the  truth.  I  have  brought  you  to  your  home. 
You  will  find  your  father  inside." 

She  came  down  slowly,  clinging  to  his  hand.  He  placed 
on  the  ground  the  little  bag  which  contained  the  scanty 
possessions  of  a  convent  girl. 

"I  have  my  mails,  and  I  am  late,  Mam'selle.  Your 
father  is  within.  I  must  hurry." 

He  leaped  back  upon  his  seat  and  drove  away  with  the 
haste  of  a  man  who  fears  what  may  happen.  He  had  no 
wish  to  appear  before  Beaulieu  as  the  charioteer  who  had 
whisked  that  daughter  home  without  warning. 

She  stood  outside,  hesitating.  A  flicker  of  light  from 
the  door  shone  on  her  face.  A  man  who  came  out  singing, 
beating  his  whip-handle  across  his  palm,  stopped  and 
swore  amazedly. 

"Thousand  thunders!"  he  panted,  speaking  in  Acadian 
patois.  "  If  you  are  not  a  June  fairy,  fresh  lighted  here,  then 
you  are  the  handsomest  mademoiselle  on  the  border." 

He  put  out  his  hand,  but  she  avoided  his  grasp  and 

8 


HOME 

hurried  into  the  big  room.  Better  inside  where  the 
tumult  was  and  where  her  father  must  be,  than  the  out 
side  in  the  dark  where  men  leered  and  said  the  first  words 
of  passion  of  man  for  maid  she  had  ever  heard. 

The  swinging  smoke  of  the  room  clouded  the  vision  of  the 
startled  eyes  with  which  she  searched  their  faces  when  they 
all  turned  to  goggle  at  her.  Suddenly  there  was  a  cry,  a 
man's  yelp  of  astonishment.  Silver  coins  rattled  and 
rolled  on  the  floor.  Vetal  Beaulieu,  his  hard  eyes  popping, 
had  dropped  a  handful  of  money  he  had  been  conveying 
to  his  pocket.  He  stood  transfixed,  his  wet  fingers  out 
spread,  his  jaw  sagging. 

"I  am  Evangeline  Beaulieu,"  she  quavered.  Her 
smarting  eyes  could  not  distinguish  him  in  the  smoke. 
"I  am  looking  for  my  father." 

A  young  man  leaped  forward,  seized  her  hand,  and  led 
her  toward  Vetal,  who  stood  without  motion  and  without 
words.  When  she  came  to  him  the  father  put  out  to  her 
his  hand,  odorous  with  liquor. 

"Is  this — is  this  our — home,  father?"  she  cried. 

He  led  her  to  a  door  which  opened  into  another  part 
of  the  house. 

"I  shall  talk  with  you  soon,  Evangeline,"  he  said. 
His  shaking  voice  marked  the  tumult  of  his  spirit. 

When  she  was  gone  and  the  door  was  closed  behind  her, 
he  faced  them,  leaning  against  the  door. 

"I  have  had  the  surprise,"  he  told  them,  brokenly,  his 
face  white,  his  eyes  avoiding  theirs.  "My  girl  has  come 
home  from  St.  Basil.  The  place  is  closed  for  this  night." 

They  protested  noisily;  but  he  went  among  them,  in 
sisting  with  dogged  determination.  The  drunken  ones  he 
pushed  out-of-doors.  He  buffeted  those  who  tried  to 
fight  him  off.  The  soberer  teamsters  went  away  after  a 
time.  But  for  an  hour  the  talk  was  loud,  the  uproar  was 

9 


brutal,  and  afterward  men  lingered  outside  and  bawled 
coarse  insults  at  Vetal  Beaulieu,  barricaded  in  his  house. 
For  the  first  time  in  the  memory  of  those  men  of  the 
border  the  door  of  Beaulieu's  Place  was  closed  against  a 
man  who  had  money  in  his  fist  and  wanted  to  buy  liquor. 

But  Vetal  Beaulieu  was  now  face  to  face  with  a  girl 
who  had  become  a  woman  after  those  few  moments  of 
shame  and  agony.  His  money  had  educated  her,  had 
given  her  breadth  of  intellect,  love  of  honor,  deep  re 
ligious  feeling,  poise,  and  character.  He  was  a  cowering 
and  guilty  Frankenstein,  menaced  by  that  which  his 
dollars  had  raised  up.  Before  her  his  spirit  and  his 
money-greed  took  fright.  His  own  excuse  which  had 
served  his  conscience  through  the  years — that  he  had 
taken  toll  for  her  sake  from  those  who  fared  along  the 
Monarda  highway  to  provide  for  her  future — seemed  weak 
excuse  now  when  he  stammered  it — her  eyes  searching 
his  soul. 

Men  who  battered  at  the  plank  door  and  were  not 
answered  listened  at  the  cracks,  heard  voices  of  appeal, 
rebuke,  and  protestation,  and  went  away,  not  under 
standing.  At  last  the  voices  ceased. 

One  who  arrived  singing,  "We'll  whoa  our  nags  at 
Beaulieu's  Place,  where  the  morson  flows  so  free,"  swung 
his  cart  so  that  he  could  peer  from  his  high  seat  through 
one  of  the  windows.  He  saw  Vetal  Beaulieu  seated 
beside  his  truck,  alone.  Beaulieu  would  not  open  his 
door. 


II 


THE  COURIER  OF  THREE  THOUSAND  SHEEP 


ETAL  BEAULIEU  was  still  wide  awake 
when  the  first  sleepy  cheeping  of  birds 
hinted  that  dawn  was  at  hand.  He  sat 
in  his  hard  chair,  his  elbows  on  his  knees. 
He  lifted  his  head  and,  with  red-lidded 
eyes,  saw  the  gray  light  of  earliest  morning 
smear  the  sky  between  the  crowding  spruces  which  grid- 
ironed  his  eastern  windows. 

Solitary,  in  the  dim  spaciousness  of  the  big  general 
room  of  Beaulieu's  Place,  he  had  cursed,  he  had  stamped 
about  in  the  night's  silences,  he  had  wept;  then  he  had 
cursed  again,  only  to  melt  into  noisy  tears  once  more.  He 
had  inherited  the  mercurial  temperament  of  his  Acadian 
forebears.  From  extreme  to  extreme  of  emotion  his  tu 
multuous  feelings  carried  him. 

Now  and  then  in  the  night  the  smoky  oil-lamp  had 
given  signal  to  those  who  traveled  along  the  Monarda 
highway  that  some  one  was  awake  within  Beaulieu's  house. 
They  had  beaten  upon  the  door  and  shouted  impatiently 
when  Vetal  did  not  lift  the  bar.  Beaulieu  growled  oaths 
and  sat  with  ringers  thrust  into  his  gray  hair,  his  palms 
against  his  ears. 

When  the  rattle  of  the  carts  was  dulled  by  distance  and 
died,  the  hush  of  a  forest  night  settled  on  the  house  in 
Monarda  clearing.  The  shrilling  of  June  frogs  in  Hagas 
swamp  was  stilled.  The  single  lamp's  flame  burned  redly 

ii 


THE    RED    LANE 

within  its  smoky  chimney.  Mice  came  out  of  the  walls 
and  nosed  warily  at  cigar  butts  and  litter  on  the  unswept 
floor.  When  Vetal  wiped  his  eyes  and  found  voice  and 
cursed  and  stamped  about,  they  scurried  away  into  their 
cracks.  When  he  was  still  again,  sitting  with  elbows  on 
his  knees,  they  came  out  and  nibbled  at  cracker-crumbs 
here  and  there. 

Alone  in  the  night  he  thought  upon  his  mortgages  and 
his  estates,  but  such  thoughts  did  not  cheer  him.  Men 
had  heard  Vetal  Beaulieu  curse,  as  he  had  cursed  this 
night  in  the  solemnity  of  the  silences  before  the  dawn. 
But  no  man  had  ever  seen  him  weep.  He  clutched  his 
fingers  in  his  hair  and  pondered! 

He  had  pride  of  race,  Beaulieu  had  !  His  forebears 
were  of  the  Grand  Pre"  of  the  Acadians,  of  the  Basin  of 
Minas 

Beaulieu's  folks  had  not  been  transported  to  the  South 
by  the  hated  English.  Only  the  sheep  of  the  Grand  Pre" 
flock  had  given  themselves  into  the  hands  of  the  oppressors, 
he  was  accustomed  to  boast.  Vetal  Beaulieu's  great 
grandfather  had  been  a  lion  and  had  resisted — had 
escaped.  With  his  family  and  his  stock,  by  trail  and  by 
raft,  he  had  ascended  the  broad  St.  John  into  the  fastnesses 
of  the  wilderness  and,  with  others  as  bold  as  he,  had 
founded  a  new  Acadia.  In  his  barn  were  horses  whose 
ancestors  had  cropped  the  close  grass  of  France — he  had 
cows  whose  strain  had  been  preserved  in  straight  descent 
from  dams  brought  off  the  Isle  of  Jersey.  He  paid  his 
debts  promptly — he  had  saved  his  money,  he  reflected 
with  pride.  He  had  met  all  comers  without  regret,  with 
out  shame,  in  his  business.  Beaulieus  had  kept  the  village 
wine-shops  in  ancient  Normandy. 

But  he  forgot  his  property  and  his  pride  as  he  sat  there 
in  the  hush  of  midnight  and  later  in  the  dim  early  hours. 

12 


THE    COURIER 

Then  the  fresh  new  day  began  to  stir  the  leaves  with  first 
sighs  of  breezes,  though  the  east  was  not  yet  gray.  But 
he  did  not  heed  the  world  out-of-doors.  The  windows 
were  close  shut.  The  stale  odors  of  liquors  and  the 
scent  of  dead  tobacco  mingled.  The  sweet  dews  of 
morning  trickled  on  the  panes  outside,  and  the  cool  scents 
of  Monarda  forest  were  all  about,  but  he  did  not  open  to 
let  them  in.  The  staleness  within-doors  seemed  to  suit 
his  mood;  the  foul  air,  confined  there,  was  as  bitter  as  his 
thoughts.  The  lamp's  flame  had  been  dying.  Now  it 
winked  out,  leaving  stench  of  charred  wick  to  mingle  with 
the  malodorous  atmosphere. 

To  one  keeping  vigil,  absorbed  in  troubled  thoughts, 
it  is  night  so  long  as  the  light  of  the  evening  before  stays 
burning.  The  lapse  of  time  is  not  noted.  Vetal  lifted 
his  head.  The  windows  showed  him  that  the  first  gray 
of  dawn  was  in  the  skies.  He  heard  now  and  then  the 
drowsy  chirp  of  birds.  He  rose  and  staggered  about  a  bit. 
Fumbling  in  the  dim  light  he  poured  a  dram  for  himself. 
It  was  white  rum,  and  fiery.  But  it  seemed  to  him  that 
its  fires  suited  his  hot  resolution.  For  he  had  re 
solved  ! 

He  muttered,  moving  about  the  room,  making  sure  that 
the  window-catches  were  fastened,  yawning  even  as  he 
cursed,  continuing  his  sullen  monologue.  Then,  as  faint, 
almost,  as  the  ticking  of  the  old  clock  on  the  shelf  above 
the  truck,  he  heard  the  dull  clip-clop  of  a  horse's  hoofs  far 
down  the  broad  white  road  of  clay.  The  rider  was  hurry 
ing  his  animal,  for  the  sound  grew  louder  with  each  second 
and  its  staccato  showed  that  the  horse  was  galloping 
wildly.  Before  Beaulieu  had  finished  his  round  of  the 
big  room  the  horse  had  stopped  at  the  broad  door. 

The  master  of  Beaulieu's  Place  paid  no  attention  to  the 
first  knocking,  though  it  was  sharp  and  insistent — the 

13 


THE    RED   LANE 

beating  of  a  whip-handle  on  the  oak  planks  of  the  door. 
It  continued. 

The  horse  had  raced  up  from  the  Province  side  of  the 
boundary.  Vetal,  growling,  his  forehead  wrinkling  with 
apprehension,  pushed  his  truck  along  the  floor  to  the 
American  side  of  the  painted  line.  Evidently  the  man 
outside  heard  the  rumble  of  the  iron  wheels. 

"Open  up,  Vetal!  It's  Dave  Roi!  I  hear  you.  Open 
up!" 

Beaulieu  threw  the  wooden  bar  out  of  its  slot,  and  the 
door  swung  wide.  The  cool  breath  of  the  dawn  was 
waiting  there  at  the  threshold  and  rushed  in  upon  the 
tainted  atmosphere  of  the  big  room.  The  man  who  had 
knocked  came,  too,  with  the  impatience  of  one  to  whom 
minutes  are  precious. 

"It  takes  you  a  long  time  to  wake  up." 

"No,  by  gar,  it  takes  me  a  long  time  to  go  to  sleep," 
retorted  Vetal,  sourly.  "I  have  not  closed  my  eyes  this 
night." 

"Neither  have  I,  but  there  are  many  better  things  in 
this  life  than  sleeping."  He  laughed  with  the  boisterous 
zest  of  one  who  comes  in  from  the  flush  of  the  morning, 
full  of  the  joy  of  living.  "Sleep  winters,  Vetal!  Sleep 
while  the  good  priest  preaches.  Sleep  when  there's  noth 
ing  else  to  do.  But,  when  there's  fun  or  business  on,  don't 
waste  your  time  snuffing  feathers." 

He  smacked  gloved  palm  against  Beaulieu's  shrinking 
shoulder  and  strode  to  the  truck.  He  poured  liquor  for 
himself  with  the  freedom  of  one  sure  of  his  ground  in 
Beaulieu's  Place.  He  drank  and  tossed  the  last  drops 
from  the  glass  upon  the  floor — an  instinctive  libation 
according  to  the  old  Acadian  habit. 

Vetal  watched  his  guest  intently.  He  puckered  his 
eyes  and  looked  Roi  up  and  down.  He  acted  like  one 


THE    COURIER 

who  has  felt  called  on  to  make  a  new  appraisal  of  a  friend. 
He  seemed  to  be  satisfying  his  doubts,  assuring  himself 
that  certain  things  were  so. 

He  saw  a  young  man  who  was  brusquely  alert,  full  of 
the  arrogance  of  strength,  telling  the  world  by  the  upcock 
of  his  black  mustache,  the  tilt  of  his  cap,  the  trim  neatness 
of  his  corduroy  riding-dress,  that  Dave  Roi  had  full  belief 
in  himself.  One  subtler  in  analysis  than  Vetal  Beaulieu 
might  have  disregarded  the  externals  and  seen  something 
more  than  mere  confident  youth  in  the  air  of  this  rider 
of  the  night.  The  stare  he  now  turned  on  Vetal  was  hard 
and  suddenly  suspicious.  His  black  eyes  glittered. 
There  were  telltale  lines  about  those  eyes. 

"What  is  it?    Say  it!" 

"I  say  nothing,  but  I  only  think  that  you  are  a  mighty 
fine-looking  young  man,"  stated  Vetal,  promptly  and 
somberly,  as  though  replying  to  some  doubts  he  had  been 
entertaining.  "And  I  think  that  something  must  be  the 
matter  with  that  girl  what  throw  you  away — if  there  is 
some  girl  that  throw  you  over." 

"Look  here,  what  kind  of  lies  have  you  been  hearing 
about  me?"  Just  then  the  subtle  analyst  would  have 
been  still  less  impressed  by  Dave  Roi's  externals. 

"I  hear  no  lies.  I  say  that  you  look  very  good  and 
that  some  fine  girl — any  girl  would  say  so,"  insisted 
Vetal,  continuing  his  inspection  of  the  young  man  in 
question  in  a  way  which  made  the  subject  uneasy. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  Vetal.  But,  look  here,  you 
can't  afford  to  believe  everything  you  hear  about  a  fellow 
along  this  border.  Man  to  man,  now,  what's  a  chap  going 
to  do  when  the  girl  herself  puts  up  her  finger  ?  Ah,  Vetal, 
when  your  Evangeline  comes  home  to  us,  when  the  priest 
says  the  fine  words,  then  you'll  see  how  I  can  straighten 
out.  Now,  man  to  man,  don't  blame  me  for  all  you  hear." 

IS 


THE    RED   LANE 

"What  I  hear  I  forget.  I  was  not  talking  to  you  about 
what  I  hear,"  muttered  Vetal.  When  the  young  man 
had  spoken  the  girl's  name  Vetal's  countenance  twisted 
with  a  grimace  in  which  anger  and  sorrow  mingled. 

"  I'm  glad  you  haven't  been  sitting  up  all  night  worrying 
about  me,"  remarked  Roi,  recovering  his  self-possession. 

At  the  first  words  of  Vetal  he  had  shown  the  quick 
alarm  of  one  expecting  an  accusation  of  serious  portent. 
His  uneasiness  had  been  increasing  ever  since  his  arrival. 
He  had  found  Beaulieu  red-eyed  and  sullen  after  a  night's 
vigil.  The  man  had  been  staring  him  out  of  countenance. 
Vetal  had  begun  upon  a  peculiar  subject  for  discourse  at 
that  time  in  the  morning. 

"A  fellow  has  to  flit  about  a  bit  while  he's  waiting  for 
the  real  girl,"  protested  Roi.  He  was  taking  courage  from 
Vetal's  assurances.  "Have  all  your  foolishness  over  with 
before  marriage — that's  what  I  believe  in.  I  ride  here  and 
I  ride  there,  Vetal.  You  know  what  the  border  is!  I 
kiss  and  gallop  away — and  nobody  is  harmed.  If  anybody 
comes  to  you  with  any  other  kind  of  a  story  it  will  be  a  lie : 
I've  been  waiting  all  these  years  for  your  girl,  Vetal. 
She's  the  one  for  me.  Oh  yes !  No  one  else  counts.  And 
it  can't  be  much  longer  that  she'll  keep  me  waiting,  eh? 
The  sisters  at  St.  Basil  must  have  told  her  all  there  is  to 
know!"  He  was  chattering  eagerly,  as  one  anxious  to 
justify  himself. 

"They  tell  a  girl  a  great  deal  at  St.  Basil,"  muttered 
Beaulieu,  walking  to  the  door,  his  stubby  fingers  clutched 
into  his  grizzled  beard,  tears  starting  to  his  eyes.  But 
anger  succeeded  grief,  as  wrath  had  followed  tears  while 
he  was  alone  in  the  watches  of  the  night.  He  came  back 
into  the  room.  He  stamped  about  his  truck. 

"Maybe,  eh,  they  teach  girls  to  be  ashamed  of  good 
fathers  who  worked  hard  all  the  days  to  lay  up  money 

16 


THE    COURIER 

that  makes  all  the  girl's  life  easy  for  her."  He  shook  his 
'finger  at  the  liquors  as  he  marched  about  them.  "My 
great-grandfather  kept  his  wine-shop,  Dave  Roi,  and  he 
never  lost  the  respect.  Our  people  have  the  respect  for 
the  wine-shop.  It  is  good  for  the  people." 

Roi  was  staring  at  Beaulieu.  He  did  not  understand 
this  outburst. 

"And  I  am  not  a  bad  man  because  I  sell  what  the 
people  want  to  buy." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Vetal?  You  can't  afford 
to  pay  any  attention  to  what  those  infernal  Yankees  say 
about  rum-selling.  They're  only  hypocrites.  They  like 
to  come  here  and  buy.  Let  'em  talk.  What  if  you  don't 
pay  Yankee  duties — d — n  'em — and  what  if  you  do  dodge 
the  excise  over  here?"  Roi  had  passed  the  painted  line, 
crossing  the  border  into  the  Province.  "That's  why 
you  can  give  the  good  people  the  better  liquors.  You 
and  I  can  grin  and  let  all  of  'em  talk.  We  stand  to 
gether,  you  and  I  do,  Vetal !  I  pay  no  attention  if 
they  lie  about  you.  Pay  no  attention  if  they  lie  about 
me." 

"  And  I  give  my  good  money  all  to  her  some  day !"  wailed 
Vetal,  with  what  seemed  irrelevance  to  Roi.  "She  shall 
have  it,  and  you  shall  have  it." 

"It  will  come  in  handy,  of  course,  but  I  shall  have 
plenty  of  my  own,"  stated  the  young  man,  airily.  He 
marched  to  and  fro.  He  shook  his  fist  at  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  draped  on  the  wall  of  the  room.  "I  cleaned  up 
ten  thousand  dollars  last  year,  Vetal,  right  under  their 
peaked  Yankee  noses.  I've  got  three  thousand  sheep  back 
there  on  the  road  right  now.  I'm  riding  in  ahead  of  them. 
Here  you  and  I  have  been  wasting  time!  We've  been 
talking  about  nothing  for  ten  minutes.  Let's  get  down 
to  business !  I  say  I've  got  three  thousand  bleaters  back 

17 


THE    RED   LANE 

there  on  the  road.  You  don't  know  anything,  do  you? 
No  tips,  eh?" 

Beaulieu  glanced  at  the  dirty  window  in  the  east  end 
of  the  room.  The  morning  light  was  flushing  it. 

"You'd  better  not  run  'em  across  in  daylight — that's 
my  tip,"  said  Vetal. 

"Oh,  I've  got  all  the  Yankee  hound  dogs  of  deputies 
running  north  of  here,  chasing  a  shadow,"  retorted  Roi 
with  a  toss  of  his  hand.  "  I  was  the  one  who  opened  the 
Lane  here  last  night — it  was  my  scheme!  They  run  in  a 
pack,  and  a  snap  of  the  finger  starts  'em  when  you  know 
how  to  do  it.  I'm  only  afraid  of  some  straggling  idiot. 
You  haven't  seen  any  signs,  eh?" 

Beaulieu  shook  his  head. 

Roi  rattled  on,  still  marching  to  and  fro. 

"I'll  let  the  sheep  come  on.  I  ought  to  have  been  here 
at  midnight,  Vetal.  I  planned  it  that  way,  of  course. 
But  hell  is  in  that  flock  back  there,  and  some  sneak 
poisoned  my  two  best  dogs  last  week.  We  have  come 
slow.  But  across  they  must  come,  Vetal.  They  ought 
to  be  here  in  ten  minutes." 

He  went  out-of-doors  and  listened.  The  sky  was  red 
in  deep  hues  near  the  horizon,  but  the  sun  was  still  below 
the  hills,  and  the  highway  under  the  trees  stretched  dimly 
in  its  vistas  east  and  west.  The  horse  which  had  brought 
the  chief  of  the  Monarda  smugglers  was  hitched  to  the 
iron  post  that  marked  the  line  between  the  countries. 
Roi  went  to  the  animal  and  was  about  to  mount. 

Beaulieu  called  to  him.  Vetal  stood  in  the  broad  door. 
The  anxiety  in  his  tones  and  the  expression  on  his  face 
indicated  that  he  had  something  especial  to  say. 

"I  haven't  any  time  now,  Vetal!    Save  your  gossip." 

Beaulieu  stepped  out  of  the  door  and  gazed  furtively 
at  a  window  in  the  far  end  of  his  house.  The  curtain  was 

18 


THE    COURIER 

drawn  tightly.  He  turned  to  Roi,  his  finger  on  his  lips. 
Then  he  pointed  to  the  open  door. 

"You'd  better  step  in,  Dave,"  he  advised,  and  led  the 
way. 

Roi  followed,  for  there  was  a  warning  significance  in 
the  man's  words  and  acts. 

"A  spy  in  there,  eh?"  he  demanded,  when  they  were 
back  in  the  big  room.  "Why  in  the  devil's  name  didn't 
you  say  so  at  the  start-off?" 

"I'd  know  what  to  say  about  a  spy — I'd  know  what 
to  tell  you,  and  tell  you  quick.  But  it'sworse  than  a  spy — 
worse  than  a  hound  deputy,  Dave!"  His  voice  broke  in 
sudden  emotion  and  he  began  to  plod  around  his  truck. 
"It's  Evangeline — my  girl,  Evangeline!  She  is  home 
from  St.  Basil.  She  is  there  in  the  room." 

Tears  were  on  his  cheeks. 

There  was  a  flash  of  sudden  astonishment  in  Roi's  eyes. 

"Evangeline  home!"  Then  he  recovered  his  self-pos 
session.  "I  must  say,  Vetal,  you  don't  act  like  a  proud 
father  getting  back  his  daughter  after  all  these  years." 

"She  was  not  to  come  now.  I  did  not  tell  her  to  come 
now.  She  came  without  the  warning." 

He  beat  his  hand  upon  his  breast.  His  voice  was 
hoarse  with  grief  and  anger. 

"She  stand  and  tell  me  that  I  shame  her — I  disgrace 
the  good  name  of  the  Beaulieus.  She  talk  like  that  to  her 
own  father,  who  has  been  so  good  to  her.  I  have  work 
hard  all  the  years.  I  have  pile  up  the  money!"  In  his 
distress  his  Acadian  tongue  became  careless  of  its  English. 
"I  do  not  sleep  all  the  night.  I  sit  here  and  sorrow,  for 
my  own  girl  have  come  back  home  to  tell  her  poor  father 
that  he  have  disgrace  her.  Dave,  I  have  not  sleep.  I 
think  I  never  sleep  some  more!" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Vetal,  that  a  girl  eighteen  years 

19 


THE    RED    LANE 

old  hasn't  found  out  till  now  that  you  have  made  all  your 
money  peddling  rum  off  that  truck — hadn't  ever  heard  of 
Beaulieu's  Place  on  this  border?" 

"She  go  on  the  convent  of  St.  Basil  when  her  mother 
die,  when  she  was  a  baby  of  four  years;  you  know  that 
yourself,"  bleated  Vetal.  "But  I  am  not  ashame  because 
I  have  sold  my  rum.  My  great-grandfather  have  keep 
his  wine-shop." 

"Well,  selling  wine  in  old  Normandy  and  selling  rum 
off  a  truck  where  you  beat  the  customs  and  the  excise  both 
may  strike  some  fussy  folks  as  different  propositions," 
drawled  Roi,  with  a  flash  of  sardonic  humor.  "I  don't 
lay  it  up  against  you,  Vetal.  Understand  that.  I  be 
lieve  that  every  cent  we  knock  out  of  the  d — d  Yankee 
customs  is  honest  money  for  us.  But  a  girl  right  out  of  a 
convent  isn't  able  to  understand  the  business  side  of 
things.  You  simply  have  got  to  put  it  up  to  her  straight 
and  right!  She's  an  Acadian  girl.  She'll  understand." 

"She  say  I  must  smash  my  bottles,  close  my  doors, 
clean  out  my  place,  make  the  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine, 
do  the  novena  for  every  year  I  have  been  in  the  wicked 
ness,  and  give  my  money  to  the  poor  as  she  shall  tell  me 
to  give  it,"  wailed  the  publican. 

"Oh,  see  here!  That's  all  nonsense.  That's  only  a 
silly  convent  notion.  She'll  wake  up.  If  she  doesn't 
wake  up — well,  you  know  how  to  bring  your  own  daughter 
into  line,  don't  you?  If  you  don't,  then  you'll  be  the 
first  Acadian  who  didn't  understand  how  to  handle  his 
women  folk." 

Vetal  drove  his  hand  across  his  face.  He  swept  away 
the  tears. 

" I  say  'go'  to  my  wife  and  she  go— and  she  come  when 
I  say  'come' !  That's  my  wife. ' '  He  vibrated  his  clinched 
fist  over  his  head. 

20 


THE    COURIER 

"Run  your  own  house — that's  right !  Of  course  I  don't 
believe  in  being  a  brute  where  women  are  concerned,  Vetal, 
but  you  can't  afford  to  let  a  girl  be  foolish.  Rise  up  and 
be  boss,  and  the  thing  will  straighten  out  all  right." 

He  turned  away  impatiently. 

"Say,  this  gab  isn't  going  to  do  for  me,  Vetal.  I've 
got  three  thousand  sheep  piling  along  back  here.  I  can't 
waste  any  more  time  talking  about  a  girl's  whim.  She 
had  no  business  running  home  from  the  convent  till  you 
had  it  understood  with  her.  But,  now  that  she's  here 
make  her  toe  the  crack.  A  woman  never  has  any  use  for 
a  man  who  doesn't  whirl  her  into  line." 

He  started  for  the  door.  But  Vetal  rushed  after  him. 
He  seized  Roi's  arm  and  dragged  him  back. 

"But  I've  got  to  get  out  of  here,  I  say,"  insisted  the 
young  man.  "This  job  of  mine  can't  wait  even  for  a 
sweetheart.  I'll  be  back  later  in  the  day,  Vetal.  I'll 
have  a  good  talk  with  her.  Both  of  us  will  talk  to  her." 

"She  tell  me  last  night  that  if  you  are  a  smuggler,  as 
she  has  heard,  she  will  not  marry  you — she  will  not  speak 
to  you  again." 

Roi  whirled  and  scowled  on  Vetal. 

"She  has  been  hearing  something,  eh?" 

"And  she  said  more  than  that,"  the  father  went  on. 
"She  said  you  are  not  the  young  man  for  her  to  marry, 
anyway.  I  don't  understand,  Dave.  I  look  at  you.  You 
are  a  fine  young  man.  You  have  make  money.  That 
girl  what  throw  you  away  don't  know  what  she  do." 

Roi's  face  flushed,  and  his  eyes  narrowed.  He  did  not 
require  the  restraining  clutch  of  Vetal  Beaulieu  now.  He 
strode  back  into  the  room. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  she  said  that  in  earnest!" 

"Listen,  Dave  Roi!  I  look  at  her  when  she  talk  to  me 
last  night.  I  say  to  myself,  over  and  over:  'This  is  only 

3  21 


THE    RED   LANE 

my  girl  Evangeline.  Bah,  I  shall  not  allow  her  to  talk 
to  me  like  that.'  But,  my  God,  Dave  Roi,  when  I  look  at 
her  standing  there  she  is  not  my  young  girl  any  more. 
She  is — she  is — I  can't  tell  you  what  it  is  she  is — but  I  am 
frightened  when  she  look  at  me!"  He  began  to  weep 
again.  "I  am  frightened,  for  she  is  not  my  girl — my 
Acadian  girl  like  the  other  girls  who  obey  and  do  not  ask 
questions." 

Dave  Roi  did  not  understand  what  this  halting  speech 
tried  to  explain.  That  this  father,  accustomed  to  the 
ancient  obedience  of  children,  unquestioning  subservience 
to  the  will  of  the  elders,  had  all  at  once  been  faced  by 
something  which  had  upset  all  his  aims  and  hopes  and 
dreams  was  not  grasped  in  its  full  extent  by  the  cynical 
young  man.  Roi  simply  understood  that  Evangeline 
Beaulieu  had  come  home  and  had  dragged  her  father  over 
the  coals  on  account  of  the  traffic  by  which  he  earned  his 
money.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  little  discipline  might 
easily  remedy  that  matter.  That  reference  to  himself  Roi 
thought  he  understood  better.  His  face  grew  hard. 

"I'm  going  to  stop  long  enough  to  tell  you  one  thing, 
Vetal.  I  keep  my  eyes  and  ears  open  on  this  border. 
That's  a  part  of  my  business.  I  didn't  think  this 
amounted  to  much  when  I  first  heard  it.  But  if  Evan 
geline  is  talking  about  me,  as  you  tell  me  she  is,  then  it's 
time  to  speak  out.  They  say  she  has  been  having  a  beau 
on  the  sly  at  the  convent." 

"I  believe  no  such  thing!"  raged  Vetal.  "It  is  too 
strict  at  St.  Basil.  There  can  no  young  man  come  court 
ing  there.  Even  you — you  who  shall  marry  her,  and  so 
the  sisters  know — even  you  can  see  her  only  in  the  big 
room  with  the  sisters  sitting  by.  She  can  have  no  beau." 

"It  is  strict  there — but  thoughts  can  go  out  over  the 
walls  even  when  a  girl  cannot,"  growled  Roi.  "A  girl 

22 


THE    COURIER 

can  fall  in  love  with  a  fellow  even  if  she  has  never  touched 
his  hand.  And  if  she  is  thinking  about  a  fellow  all  the 
time  she  might  just  as  well  be  hugged  in  his  arms,  so  far  as 
being  worth  anything  to  another  fellow  goes." 

"She  shall  marry  you,"  blustered  Vetal. 

"I  don't  need  to  force  any  girl  to  marry  me,  but  I'll 
tell  you  this:  there's  no  Yankee  customs  spy  who  can 
carry  off  the  girl  who  has  been  promised  to  me." 

"She  is  yours,  and  you  shall  have  her,"  insisted  the 
father.  "But  she  has  come  home  with  the  strange  ways — 
with  the  queer  ideas.  So  I  warn  you,  Dave.  She  will 
look  at  you  like  she  looked  at  me.  She  will  say  to  you, 
'  I  will  not  be  marry  to  the  man  what  breaks  the  country's 
law!'  I  wish  you  don't  drive  your  sheep  across  the  line 
to-day." 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  hang  up  a  drove  of  three  thousand 
sheep  to  please  a  girl,"  declared  Roi,  with  an  oath.  "I 
say  they've  got  to  be  kept  moving." 

"But  I  have  lie  to  her.  If  she  was  ashame  of  her  old 
father  I  say  to  myself  she  must  not  be  ashame  of  the  man 
I  have  pick  out  for  her  to  marry,"  cried  Vetal.  "So 
I  tell  her  you  don't  smuggle.  I  have  lie  to  her.  You 
shall  marry  her  so  that  some  sneak  shall  not  steal  her 
away.  Turn  back  your  sheep,  Dave.  If  she  know  I  have 
lie  to  her  it  will  be  very  bad  for  a  poor  old  father." 

There  was  almost  frenzy  of  appeal  in  Beaulieu's  voice. 
The  picture  of  his  daughter  rose  before  him  as  she  had 
stood  there  in  the  room  the  night  before,  cowing  him  by 
her  woman's  poise,  shaming  him  by  her  sorrowful  ac 
cusations,  wringing  his  simple  heart  by  her  grief  that 
her  father  should  be  such  as  she  had  found  him. 

But  even  while  Beaulieu  pleaded  there  came  a  strange 
sound  from  the  woods  to  the  east.  The  purr  of  innumer 
able  little  feet  on  the  hard  clay  road — that  was  the  sound. 

23 


THE    RED    LANE 

There  were  broken,  dust-choked  quaverings  of  the  com 
plaints  of  weary  sheep ;  there  were  tremulous  wailings  of 
lambs.  Above  all  there  was  one  insistent  sound — the 
queer,  rustling  shuffle  of  many  moving  bodies. 

Roi  swung  away  from  the  coaxing,  patting  hands  of 
Vetal.  He  hurried  to  the  door. 

"She  may  as  well  drop  fool  notions  and  get  used  to 
her  husband's  business,"  the  smuggler  called  over  his 
shoulder.  "It's  too  late  to  call  off  this  deal  now,  Beau- 
lieu.  Here  comes  a  clean  profit  of  a  thousand  dollars — 
wool,  hides,  and  chops — all  under  their  own  steam.  And 
as  for  me,  I'm  not  ashamed  of  having  any  girl  see  me 
turn  this  trick." 

He  marched  out  into  the  roadway  and  watched  the 
approach  of  the  flock,  casting  side  glances  at  the  curtained 
window. 

And  Vetal  Beaulieu  slunk  out  and  stood  beside  his 
son-in-law-elect. 


Ill 


BY  THE    HANDS   OF   BEAULIEU  S    GIRL 

HE  sheep  came  on,  crowding,  bleating, 
thrusting  woolly  bodies  together,  their 
trotting  hoofs  purring  on  the  hard  road 
way.  The  undulating  press  of  shaggy 
backs  filled  the  Monarda  thoroughfare. 
Two  collie  dogs  with  lolling  tongues 
scurried  here  and  there  on  the  outskirts,  menacing  strag 
glers  with  sharp  barks,  nipping  at  vagrant  hocks.  Now 
and  then  the  dogs  crossed  the  field  of  moving  wool,  spring 
ing  from  back  to  back.  Far  behind,  hardly  more  than 
shadows  in  the  haze  of  fine  dust  from  the  clay  road,  were 
men  with  long  staves.  The  men  were  shouting  commands 
to  the  eager  dogs,  and  yelped  angrily  at  the  laggards  or 
truants  among  the  sheep. 

"You  take  the  big  chance  this  day — you  take  the  big 
chance,"  complained  Beaulieu.  He  scowled  apprehen 
sively  when  the  clamor  swelled ;  he  peered  under  his  hand 
to  the  west,  searching  with  squinting  eyes  among  the 
scattered  trees  of  the  Yankee  border. 

"Oh,  the  good  old  Red  Lane  is  open  for  me  here  all 
right,"  said  Roi,  boasting  carelessly.  "They're  looking 
for  me  twenty  miles  north  of  here.  The  good  old  Red 
Lane  is  easily  shifted  overnight."  He  laughed  loudly  and 
looked  at  the  window  in  the  far  end  of  Beaulieu's  house. 
"But  when  you  shift  three  thousand  sheep  and  drive 
'em  across  in  daylight  you  shall  find  much  trouble  some  of 

25 


THE    RED   LANE 

these  days,"  warned  Vetal.     "That  Red  Lane  ain't  made 
to  be  use  after  sun-up." 

Roi  did  not  reply.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  curtained 
window,  but  the  curtain  continued  to  guard  it  jealously. 

A  man,  dust -streaked  and  panting,  came  running  up 
on  the  outside  of  the  drove,  leaping  over  the  gutter 
boulders. 

"What  say,  boss?    All  right  ahead?" 

"  Let  'em  go,  Nappy !  Divide  'em  as  I  told  you.  Same 
pastures  as  on  the  last  trip.  When  you  come  across 
Jeffreys  tell  him  I'll  meet  him  later  in  the  day.  I'm  going 
to  hang  up  here  awhile." 

He  was  staring  again  at  the  curtained  window.  He 
turned  from  the  drover  and  walked  past  the  window, 
flicking  his  riding-whip  at  the  hurrying  sheep,  in  his 
bravado  exhibiting  the  airs  of  the  commander.  He 
shouted  orders. 

"It  is  bad  for  you  and  bad  for  me,  and  now  you  go  to 
make  it  much  worse,"  complained  Vetal,  at  his  heels. 
"She  hears — she  sees.  She  has  come  back  to  hate  us  for 
what  we  do  on  the  border." 

"  If  she  has  got  whims  that  a  good  Acadian  girl  shouldn't 
have,  then  it's  time  to  have  an  understanding.  If  she 
doesn't  hate  Yankee  sneaks  the  way  she  ought  to  hate  'em, 
we'll  find  out  what  the  reason  is,"  declared  Roi,  doggedly. 
"It  looks  to  me,  Vetal,  as  though  you  need  help  in 
handling  your  own  daughter." 

He  kicked  viciously  at  bewildered  sheep  who  ventured 
into  the  broad  yard  of  Beaulieu's  Place.  He  cursed  the 
dogs  who  were  slow  in  turning  the  flanks  of  the  drove. 

"If  she  is  ashamed  of  me  because  I've  made  my  good 
money  on  the  Red  Lane,  as  my  father  and  lots  of  other 
good  men  did  before  me,  it's  because  she  has  been  getting 
Yankee  ideas  that  an  Acadian  girl  shouldn't  have,  Vetal. 

26 


BEAULIEU'S    GIRL 

It's  right  to  cheat  a  Yankee.  It's  a  part  of  the  game  on 
this  border.  They  have  always  cheated  us." 

But  Vetal  Beaulieu  did  not  seem  to  find  consolation  in 
Roi's  opinions.  He  plodded  to  and  fro  in  the  yard,  his 
somber  gaze  on  the  sheep. 

"My  girl  has  come  home,  and  she  is  ashame  of  her  poor 
father,"  he  muttered.  "  I  have  work  and  save  for  her,  and 
she  is  ashame.  I  think  it  is  the  very  bad  time  for  poor 
Vetal  Beaulieu  who  have  work  so  hard  all  his  life  for  his 
girl." 

The  laggard  file-closers  of  the  weary  sheep  were  scuffling 
past.  Behind  them  came  the  men  with  the  long  staves, 
bawling  to  their  charges. 

"Bring  out  half  a  dozen  bottles  of  the  white  rum,  Vetal," 
directed  Roi. 

But  the  master  of  Beaulieu's  Place  gave  a  furtive  glance 
at  the  curtained  window,  growled,  and  kept  on  walking. 

Roi  hurried  into  the  big  room  and  came  out  with  his 
hands  full  of  bottles. 

"Open  them  later,  boys,  when  the  pasture  bars  are  up 
behind  the  bleaters,"  directed  the  chief.  "Keep  'em  mov 
ing.  There's  no  customs  sneak  ahead  of  us  on  the  Red 
Lane  this  morning." 

The  drovers  grinned,  divided  the  bottles  among  them 
selves,  and  hurried  on. 

Suddenly  Vetal,  who  had  peered  under  his  palm  each 
time  he  turned  to  the  west,  threw  up  his  arms  and  gave  a 
shrill  cry. 

"What  have  I  tell  you — what  have  I  tell  you,  Dave 
Roi  ?  You  have  took  the  chance.  You  have  fooled  with 
the  daytime.  You  have  gone  against  the  bad  thing  this 
time." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  identity  of  the  person  who 
appeared  suddenly  on  the  brow  of  a  hillock  just  ahead  of 

27 


THE   RED   LANE 

the  drove.  The  first  shaft  of  the  rising  sun  touched  the 
insignia  on  the  man's  cap.  A  spot  of  reflected  light 
sparkled  ominously  in  the  eyes  of  the  smugglers.  This 
man  was  clearly  an  officer  of  the  United  States  customs. 
He  was  alone.  Roi  leaped  upon  the  granite  base  which 
supported  the  boundary's  iron  post.  No  other  officers 
were  visible. 

"The  d — d  sneak,"  he  blustered.  "There's  only  one 
of  him.  He's  tumbling  into  this  thing  by  accident." 

He  leaped  down,  tugging  at  his  hip  pocket,  and  ran 
toward  his  men,  who  had  halted  in  the  highway.  He 
thrust  his  revolver  into  the  hands  of  one  of  the  drovers. 

"Duck  around  through  the  edge  of  the  woods  and  give 
him  a  lead  hint  to  move.  Get  behind  him.  You  can  do 
it  easy." 

The  man  pushed  the  weapon  away. 

"  I'm  hired  to  drive  sheep,  not  to  shoot  officers,  Mr.  Roi." 

"  You  don't  propose  to  let  one  man  hold  us  up  with  three 
thousand  here  on  the  hoof,  do  you?  What  kind  of  cow 
ards  are  you?" 

He  shook  his  revolver  above  his  head  and  turned  from 
one  to  the  other. 

"Where's  your  nerve,  boys?    Get  after  him." 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  doing  that  kind  of  a  job 
yourself,  Mr.  Roi?"  inquired  the  big  fellow  who  had  thrust 
back  the  weapon.  "I'm  no  coward,  but  murdering  a 
custom-house  man  isn't  in  my  line.  I  don't  own  these 
sheep." 

"Well,  I  do!  And  I  don't  propose  to  have  a  lone- 
handed  sneak  steal  'em.  And  who  said  anything  about 
murder?  Gad,  they  don't  make  the  right  kind  of  men 
these  days.  Give  you  fellows  wool  and  a  bleat,  and  you'd 
fit  into  this  drove  here. ' '  He  stamped  about,  cursing  them. 
"It's  your  fault!  You  ought  to  have  been  here  before 

28 


BEAULIEU'S    GIRL 

daylight,  you  loafers.  And  now  that  you're  here  you're 
no  good." 

He  whirled  and  shook  the  revolver  under  the  nose  of  a 
stocky  youth. 

"If  old  Blaze  Condon  was  here — if  your  father  was 
alive,  he  wouldn't  be  standing  here  shivering  on  one  foot. 
He'd  know  how  to  open  the  Red  Lane  if  only  one  man  was 
blocking  it — yes,  if  a  dozen  Yankee  hounds  were  over 
there!" 

The  youth  knocked  the  neck  of  his  bottle  against  his 
staff,  broke  the  glass,  and  drank  from  the  ragged  opening. 

"Make  it  worth  while,  Mr.  Roi?"  he  suggested,  in 
solently. 

"A  hundred  if  you  drive  him!" 

"Good  pay  for  driving  sheep,  but  a  devilish  small  price 
for  driving  a  customs  man." 

Roi  looked  down  the  line  of  his  woolly  property.  The 
man  on  the  hillock  stood  like  a  statue,  waiting.  The 
leaders  of  the  flock  had  passed  him.  The  sheep  could  not 
be  turned  and  herded  back  across  the  line.  The  officer 
was  posted  in  a  way  to  prevent  that. 

"Five  hundred  to  you,  Condon,  if  you  do  something 
so  that  we  can  get  those  sheep  out  of  this  scrape — and  I 
don't  care  what  you  do." 

"That  sounds  different!"  The  youth  turned  up  the 
broken  bottle  and  drank  again.  The  liquor  ran  down  over 
his  breast,  for  he  could  not  set  his  lips  on  the  jagged  glass. 
He  threw  the  bottle  at  the  iron  post  and  reached  for  the 
revolver. 

"Go  on  with  your  drove,  boys,"  he  said.  "I'll  cut 
around  behind." 

Roi  strode  into  the  big  room  on  the  heels  of  Beaulieu. 
There  was  fright  on  the  publican's  seamed  face.  He 
trudged  about  his  truck,  muttering  his  fears,  looking  from 

29 


THE    RED    LANE 

the  corners  of  his  eyes  at  Roi,  who  came  to  the  truck  and 
poured  liquor  for  himself. 

"Dirty  work,  eh?"  he  sneered,  catching  some  of  Vetal's 
words.  "Well,  you  didn't  think  I  was  going  to  do  it 
myself,  did  you,  when  there's  a  drunken  fool  handy?" 

"Your  father  would  not  have  hire  a  man  for  murder." 

"  My  father  operated  on  this  border  when  officers  would 
handle  a  piece  of  money  or  stay  out  of  the  way  where 
they  belonged.  If  Yankee  sneaks  are  bound  to  get  in  the 
way  in  these  days  they've  got  to  take  the  consequences." 

"Your  father  was  not  so  reckless  like  you.  He  would 
not  have  come  across  here  in  the  broad  day,"  stuttered 
Vetal. 

As  he  hurried  to  and  fro  in  the  room  he  kept  cocking  his 
head,  listening,  fear  in  his  eyes.  In  a  few  moments  that 
fear  became  the  ugliness  of  a  man  whose  nerves  are  over 
strained.  He  turned  on  Roi,  who  was  lurking  within  doors. 

"You  hire  a  man  to  go  off  to  murder,  and  you  hide  your 
head.  Name  o'  God,  Dave,  I  think  you  been  the  coward." 

"I'll  run  my  business  without  taking  any  advice  from 
you,  Beaulieu."  He  poured  another  drink  for  himself. 
His  hand  was  shaking.  He  was  pale.  "There  isn't  any 
murder  in  this.  I  didn't  tell  Condon  to  murder  any  one. 
What  he  does  he  does  on  his  own  responsibility." 

"Ba  gar,  you  are  the  coward,"  insisted  Vetal,  angrily. 
"You  lie  to  yourself  because  you  are  the  coward." 

The  agony  of  that  waiting  in  the  silence  was  too  much 
for  his  Gallic  nerves.  He  stormed  at  Roi.  Anger  re 
lieved  his  stress  of  emotion  somewhat.  His  own  fury  met 
ready  response  from  the  smuggler.  Roi  retorted  savagely ; 
and  the  two  cursed  each  other,  hiding  their  deeper  emotion 
under  incoherent  speech  and  nasty  oaths. 

"You  have  sent  a  drunken  man  to  go  and  do  something," 
shrilled  Vetal.  "  And  a  drunken  man  he  has  no  brain,  no 

30 


BEAULIEU'S    GIRL 

care  of  what  he  do.  You  go  and  make  my  place  the  head 
quarter  for  this  thing.  You  make  me  either  the  liar  or 
the  man  who  get  mix  in,  and  he  cannot  help  himself.  You 
do  that,  and  my  Evangeline  here  to  see,  to  hear  it  all!" 

"According  to  what  you've  been  telling  me  your  case 
can't  be  much  worse  with  her  than  it  is  now,"  said  Roi, 
with  a  brutal  sneer.  "  It's  a  case  of  stand  together,  Vetal. 
You  can't  afford  to  throw  me  down.  And  if  Evangeline 
is  going  to  run  your  business  and  mine,  too,  it's  about  time 
to  find  out  about  it." 

Then  they  heard  that  which  both  had  been  listening 
for  with  cowardly  dread.  There  was  the  sudden  popping 
of  shots ;  men  outside  yelped  at  each  other  like  angry  dogs. 

"Look  and  see  who  gets  the  best  of  that,"  gasped 
Beaulieu. 

But  the  smuggler  turned  his  back  on  the  door,  shook 
his  head,  and  poured  another  drink  for  himself. 

"What  you  don't  see  you  won't  know  about,"  he 
muttered. 

The  two  in  the  big  room  stood  and  looked  at  each  other. 
Silence  had  fallen  without.  They  mutely  confessed  by 
the  glances  they  exchanged  that  neither  dared  to  step 
into  the  sunshine  and  confirm  what  they  feared.  Thrushes 
lilted  in  the  edge  of  the  forest,  and  they  heard  the  plaintive 
whummle  of  cattle  in  Beaulieu' s  barn,  coaxing  for  the  open. 
Then  there  came  the  hurrying  footsteps  of  a  man  on  the 
hard  clay  of  the  highway. 

Beaulieu  leaped  to  the  door,  slammed  it  shut,  and 
dropped  the  bar  across  it.  A  moment  later  some  one 
kicked  upon  the  planks. 

"Open  this  door!  Quick!  Open  this  door.  I'm  hurt. 
I  need  help." 

It  was  not  the  voice  of  one  of  Roi's  men.  The  two  in 
side  stared  at  each  other  and  did  not  stir. 


THE    RED    LANE 

"I'm  bleeding.  I  need  help.  Quick!"  appealed  the 
voice  without. 

But  they  did  not  open  the  door.  On  their  tiptoes  they 
slunk  back  against  the  wall,  so  that  they  might  not  be 
seen  through  the  windows.  There  was  the  silence  of  the 
June  morning  for  a  little  while. 

"Ho, inside, there!    Haven't  you  got  common  decency?" 

The  door  shook  under  blows  dealt  by  a  boot-heel. 

"I  command  you  to  open.  In  the  name  of  the  United 
States,  open  this  door." 

Suddenly  Beaulieu  saw  his  daughter.  She  had  come 
into  the  big  room  noiselessly  from  the  inner  recesses  of  the 
house.  Over  her  night-gear  was  a  wrapper  of  bright 
colors.  Such  a  robe  might  have  seemed  gaudy  on  another. 
But  the  garment  appeared  to  belong  to  her  brilliancy. 
Against  the  soft  duskiness  of  her  Acadian  pallor  her 
cheeks  glowed  with  vivid  hues.  In  the  liquid  depths  of 
her  big  black  eyes  strange  fires  sparkled.  There  was 
appeal  there,  too.  But  resolve  dominated  her  excitement. 
Both  of  the  men  who  sneaked  back  in  the  shadows  by  the 
wall  felt  the  influence  of  that  resolve  and  blinked  uneasily 
when  she  stared  at  them.  The  father  felt  it  most.  He 
had  tried  to  explain  to  Dave  Roi  that  morning.  But  his 
halting  tongue  had  not  found  words  to  describe  an  emo 
tion  which  had  been  new  to  him.  This  grave,  beautiful 
girl  had  faced  him  with  her  reproaches  the  evening  before. 
She  was  centered  in  a  mental  and  spiritual  poise  that  had 
left  him  abashed  and  grieved — yet  angered  in  a  sullen, 
secret  way.  She  came  straight  to  her  father,  pushing  back 
the  tumbling  masses  of  her  dark  hair. 

"Why  do  you  not  open  that  door,  father?" 

"Are  you  going  to  let  a  man  die  here  on  your  doorstep? 
— you  thief  of  a  Canuck!"  demanded  the  man  outside. 
His  voice  broke  in  pain  and  passion. 

,32 


BEAULIEU'S    GIRL 

The  girl  gathered  the  folds  of  her  bright  robe  close 
to  her  neck  and  hurried  to  the  door. 

Vetal  ran  from  the  wall.  He  screamed  at  her.  He 
spoke  in  the  patois  of  their  race. 

"Do  not  open  that  door." 

The  man  without  was  beating  at  the  planks  still. 

' '  You  are  my  girl.     I  command  you.     You  are  to  obey. " 

With  her  hands  on  the  bar,  she  turned  on  him.  For  a 
tense  instant  she  looked  at  him. 

"No,  the  Good  Mother  commands — and  this  is  the  doot 
of  an  Acadian  home." 

She  threw  the  bar  out  of  the  slot. 

"Stop  her,"  yelped  Roi.  "God,  man,  can't  you  handle 
your  own  daughter?" 

No,  Beaulieu  could  not.  This  rebellion  of  his  woman 
kind  cowed  him.  The  traditions  of  Acadia  had  been 
overthrown.  Here  was  a  girl  back  from  St.  Basil  with 
something  new,  compelling,  dominating  in  her  soul.  He 
stood  before  her,  his  jaw  dropping,  his  hairy  fists  closing 
and  unclosing — and  she  swung  the  door  wide. 

A  young  man  stood  there.  His  cap  bore  the  eagle  of 
the  United  States  customs  service.  His  bronzed  face  was 
gray  under  the  tan;  the  sweat  of  agony  dripped  from  his 
forehead.  His  sleeve  was  stripped  up  over  a  brawny  fore 
arm  ;  a  handkerchief  was  knotted  around  the  elbow.  Blood 
was  dripping  from  his  finger-tips. 

"  I  ani  hurt !"  he  gasped.     "  I  am —       Then  he  stopped. 

Even  Beaulieu,  in  the  tumult  of  his  own  emotions,  could 
see  that  utter,  paralyzing  astonishment  had  overwhelmed 
this  visitor.  He  who  had  been  pale  flushed.  He  stepped 
back.  He  stammered  broken  words  of  apology. 

Her  cheeks  were  flaming.  Her  voice  trembled  when 
she  spoke  to  him,  but  the  dauntlessness  of  this  girl  who 
had  just  conquered  her  own  father  supported  her  spirit. 

33 


THE    RED    LANE 

"Come  in.  Acadians  do  not  turn  folks  in  trouble  away 
from  the  door." 

He  came  in,  bending  his  head  under  the  lintel,  for  he 
was  tall  above  the  average  of  men. 

Beaulieu  backed  away  from  the  door,  snapping  his  eyes 
from  one  to  the  other  with  squirrel-like  jerks  of  his  head. 
He  saw,  but  he  did  not  understand.  His  keen  gaze 
detected  what  he  could  not  fathom. 

Roi's  clutch  closed  about  Vetal's  arm. 

"That's  the  fellow — that's  the  dog,  Beaulieu.  It's  that 
Aldrich !  He  has  been  her  beau !  Look  at  the  two  of  'em !' ' 

The  man  and  the  girl  in  the  middle  of  the  room  did  not 
turn  from  each  other;  did  not  hear  the  hoarse  whisper. 

"I  hadn't  believed  all  I've  heard,"  hissed  Roi.  "But 
they're  giving  it  away  by  their  actions.  There's  only  one 
reason  why  a  girl  looks  at  a  fellow  that  way." 

He  choked,  angry  jealousy  in  his  lowering  eyes. 
Beaulieu  flamed  with  sudden  passion  at  this  prompting. 

"You  come  away,"  he  raged,  advancing  on  the  couple. 
"Back  into  your  room,  you  girl!" 

She  lifted  her  head,  her  eyes  still  held  by  those  of  the 
young  officer.  The  hues  on  her  cheeks  had  deepened. 

"This  is  my  home,  sir,"  she  told  him,  bravely. 

"I  didn't  know — I  didn't  dream,"  he  stammered. 

This  is  my  father.     My  name  is  Evangeline  Beaulieu. ' ' 
Her  voice  trembled,  but  her  head  was  raised  proudly. 

"Father,  you  must  help  this  man.     He  is  hurt." 

"You  have  come  in  my  place,  and  I  have  not  ask  you," 
screamed  Beaulieu.  He  stood  on  his  tiptoes  and  shook 
his  fist. 

"  I  have  asked  him.  I  am  mistress  of  this  house  so  long 
as  I  remain  in  it.  Will  you  bind  up  his  wound,  father?" 

"No;  I  do  nothing  for  a  Yankee  hound,"  he  shouted, 
adding  a  wicked  oath. 

34 


BEAULIEU'S    GIRL 

"I  ask  your  pardon,  sir."  Her  lips  were  white  and 
quivering.  "Sit  there  and  I  will  do  what  poor  service  I 
can." 

She  pointed  to  a  long  bench  at  one  side  of  the  room. 
He  staggered  to  it.  Weakness  was  overcoming  him.  She 
ran  to  help  him,  when  she  noted  his  plight.  He  fell  upon 
the  bench  and  leaned  his  head  against  the  wall. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  murmured.  "I  would  go  away  if  I 
could.  But  I  am  suffering." 

She  hurried  to  another  part  of  the  room  where  water 
trickled  from  a  tap  into  a  barrel.  She  dipped  a  basin  in 
the  water  and  came  to  the  officer  with  a  towel  snatched 
from  a  hook. 

Vetal  was  striding  to  and  fro  beside  his  truck.  He 
raised  his  hands  as  she  passed  him,  threatening  her;  but 
she  did  not  hesitate.  She  did  not  even  glance  at  him. 
Her  obliviousness,  her  disregard  of  his  presence  and  pro 
fane  commands  intimidated  him  more  effectually  than 
retort.  More  than  ever  he  realized  that  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  species  of  woman  he  could  not  understand; 
and  he  feared  her. 

"You're  a  coward,"  said  Roi,  coming  to  the  truck. 
"  The  girl  is  bossing  you,  and  the  Yankee  sneak  is  laughing 
at  you." 

"  I  am  not  the  coward  who  hire  another  man  to  shoot," 
raged  Beaulieu,  welcoming  an  adversary  and  forgetting 
prudence. 

Roi,  startled,  caught  the  flash  from  the  officer's  eyes  and 
went  back  to  the  wall. 

"Mother  Mary  guide  my  hands,"  breathed  the  girl. 

She  kneeled  before  the  wounded  man,  and  with  gentle 
fingers  began  her  offices.  He  set  his  teeth  and  leaned  his 
head  against  the  wall.  There  was  silence  in  the  room. 
Beaulieu  stood  over  against  his  truck,  glowering  on  the  girl 

35 


THE    RED   LANE 

and  her  work,  but  he  no  longer  threatened.  Roi  stepped 
across  the  painted  line  and  stood  under  the  picture  of  the 
King. 

"It  will  do  now.  I  have  troubled  you  long  enough," 
said  the  young  man  at  last.  "  I  am  grateful  more  than  I 
can  tell  you." 

"But  I  could  do  so  little,"  said  the  girl,  wistfully. 
"It  is  bad,  I  am  afraid!" 

"  I  will  hurry  to  a  surgeon.  You  have  mended  my  hurt 
so  tenderly  that  I'll  have  strength  to  get  there." 

She  looked  up  to  meet  a  smile. 

"You  have  make  love  to  my  girl,  eh?"  blustered  Vetal, 
starting  toward  them.  "I  have  hear  about  you.  And 
you  sit  there  and  make  love  to  her  some  more,  eh  ?  You 
make  love  when  I  look  on,  eh?" 

Evangeline  cried  out,  shame  and  grief  in  her  flushed 
face. 

The  officer  rose  from  the  bench.  His  face  hardened 
with  sudden  passion. 

"  I  do  not  care  to  hear  a  father  insult  his  daughter,  sir. 
I  have  not  made  love  to  her.  I  didn't  know  her  name, 
sir,  until  a  few  moments  ago.  She  does  not  know  my 
name."  He  turned  to  her.  "I  am  Norman  Aldrich. 
And  I  hope  I  shall  live  long  enough,  Mademoiselle  Beau- 
lieu,  to  prove  my  gratitude  for  what  you  have  done 
to-day." 

"You  lie  to  me,"  insisted  Vetal,  wrathful  suspicion  in 
his  snapping  eyes.  "You  have  seen  my  girl  before.  I 
have  been  told  you  have  seen  her  at  St.  Basil." 

"  I  have  seen  her  there,  sir."  He  straightened,  towering 
above  the  frantic  little  French  Canadian. 

"You  own  up  to  me  you  have  seen  her!  Then  I 
think — " 

Aldrich's  right  arm  was  in  the  sling  which  the  girl  had 

36 


BEAULIEU'S    GIRL 

improvised  hastily.  He  dropped  his  left  hand  heavily  on 
Beaulieu's  shoulder.  He  leaned  down  with  an  air  of  sud 
den  menace  and  checked  the  little  man's  threatened  ex 
plosion  with  a  sharp  command. 

"Let  me  say  in  the  presence  of  your  daughter  that  I 
never  have  spoken  to  her  until  this  day,  nor  has  she  ever 
spoken  to  me  till  now."  He  thrust  Beaulieu  back  and 
turned  to  the  girl. 

"It  is  shameful  that  I  have  to  say  this  before  you. 
I  do  it  to  save  you  from  further  insult,  Mademoiselle. 
If  I  find  the  one  who  has  lied  to  your  father  I'll  see  that 
this  thing  is  made  right." 

It  was  a  piteous  look  of  shame  she  gave  him  from  her 
tear-filled  eyes.  He  thrilled  under  that  glance.  The 
attack  on  him,  his  sufferings,  his  amazement  at  finding 
there  at  Beaulieu's  notorious  resort  this  maiden  of  St. 
Basil  had  benumbed  his  sensibilities  as  a  blow  might 
momentarily  paralyze  an  arm.  He  was  awaking  to  what 
this  meeting  meant. 

He  realized  suddenly  that  this  girl  whom  he  had  seen 
with  her  companions  on  the  streets  of  the  convent  village 
had  been  in  his  thoughts  from  the  first  meeting.  A  flash 
from  her  dark  eyes  when  she  had  passed  him,  a  jump  of 
his  heart  when  he  had  met  her  gaze,  such  had  been  the 
sum  of  their  meager  love-making ;  and  on  her  part  it  was 
not  love-making,  it  was  spiritual  knowledge  that  she  had 
seen  one  who  swayed  her  and  drew  her  thoughts  outside 
the  narrow  environment  of  convent  walls. 

The  shock  of  meeting  her  here — the  knowledge  that  she 
was  Beaulieu's  daughter — all  that  was  of  small  account 
in  that  tense  moment  when  she  looked  up  at  him  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  The  beauty  of  Evangeline  Beaulieu  had 
dwelt  in  his  soul  ever  since  he  had  seen  her  at  St.  Basil. 
But  admiration  is  not  love.  Suddenly  he  saw  this  girl  of 

4  37 


THE    RED    LANE 

the  border  in  new  light.  She  had  shown  him  woman's 
tenderness — defying  her  father  to  minister  to  him  in  his 
agony.  She  had  been  brave  for  his  sake  in  a  moment 
of  trial.  Now  she  gazed  at  him,  shrinking,  sorrowing, 
ashamed.  His  heart  went  out  to  her.  Love  does  not 
reason.  Love  does  not  count  and  calculate.  He  choked. 
He  felt  an  overmastering  impulse  to  take  her  to  himself,  to 
put  his  arm  about  her,  to  protect  her,  dry  her  tears,  and 
comfort  her  distress.  In  the  tumult  of  those  emotions 
he  was  conscious  that  Beaulieu  was  shouting,  but  the  pur 
port  of  the  frenzied  man's  words  did  not  reach  him  till 
the  girl  began  to  cower  like  a  victim  under  the  lash. 

"You  know  it,  Dave  Roi!  You  have  told  me.  Now 
tell  it  to  him.  Tell  it  to  her.  You  say  they  have  make 
love  past  that  convent  wall.  You  have  heard  it  all. 
Now  you  shall  stand  up  and  tell  it  to  him.  He  say  I  have 
insult  my  girl.  You  tell  him  I  have  good  reason  to  talk 
to  her." 

"I  know  you  for  a  smuggler  and  a  border  renegade, 
Roi,"  cried  the  officer,  striding  to  the  painted  line.  "A 
few  minutes  ago  I  heard  something  about  your  hiring  a 
man  to  shoot  me.  I  believe  that  much  about  you.  But 
what  is  this  I  hear?  Are  you  the  cur  who  has  made  up 
this  lie  about  a  girl  you  are  not  fit  to  look  at?" 

Roi  scowled  at  his  accuser.  He  did  not  advance  from 
his  post  under  the  picture. 

"You  ain't  afraid  of  a  Yankee  sneak  of  a  customs  man, 
eh,  Dave?  You  tell  him  what  you  have  told  me,"  adjured 
Vetal.  "I  don't  propose  to  have  my  girl  think  I  talk  to 
her  and  make  up  the  lie  by  myself." 

"You  have  been  courting  her,"  declared  Roi,  sullenly.. 

"God,  for  two  arms  just  now!"  gasped  Aldrich. 

"  If  you  had  four  arms,"  said  Roi,  swaggering  forward  a 
few  steps,  "I'd  still  serve  notice  on  you  that  you  can't 

38 


BEAULIEU'S    GIRL 

steal  away  a  girl  who  has  been  promised  to  me  for  my 
wife." 

"Yes,  she  has  been  promised  for  his  wife,"  screamed 
Vetal.  "She's  my  girl.  She's  going  to  marry  him." 
His  anger  overmastered  his  fear  of  her.  He  seized  the 
girl  and  pulled  her  across  the  painted  line  with  him. 
"You  stay  on  your  own  side,  you  Yankee  sneak."  The 
epithet  which  he  had  employed  so  many  times  served  him 
in  lieu  of  further  threats;  he  kept  repeating  the  words, 
clinging  to  the  struggling  girl. 

Aldrich  made  two  steps  forward.  Prudence  was  not 
with  him  at  that  moment.  Wild  desire  to  protect  her, 
to  wrest  her  from  them,  took  possession  of  him.  He  forgot 
his  wound  and  his  weakness.  But  the  smuggler  was  quick 
to  remind  him  of  something  which  halted  him  at  the  strip 
of  paint. 

Roi  leaped  to  the  truck  and  seized  one  of  the  heavy 
jugs.  He  shook  it  above  his  head. 

"There's  the  line  of  your  country  right  under  your  feet. 
By  the  gods,  you  come  across  here  and  try  to  arrest  me 
on  my  own  side  and  I'll  brain  you. ' '  Roi  had  mistaken  the 
officer's  sudden  advance. 

Those  words  checked  Aldrich  more  effectually  than  any 
other  threat  could  have  done.  He  was  reminded  of  his 
duty  and  of  his  limitations  in  that  duty. 

His  emotions  had  been  played  upon  cruelly  that  day: 
he  had  been  near  death;  he  had  been  succored  by  a  beau 
tiful  girl  who  had  appeared  to  him  in  woman's  dearest 
role,  her  soft  fingers  caressing  his  wounded  flesh,  her  dark 
eyes  upraised  to  him  in  tender  pity  while  she  ministered. 
His  first  impulse  in  that  tense  moment  when  she  had  been 
dragged  away  from  him  had  been  to  rush  to  her,  to  defy 
both  the  parent  and  the  man  to  whom  she  had  been  prom 
ised.  For  he  knew  he  loved  her.  That  love  had  sprung 

39 


THE    RED    LANE 

suddenly  from  his  emotions  like  a  strange  flower  bursting 
into  magical  bloom. 

She  stood  there  on  the  other  side  of  that  painted  line 
on  a  bar-room  floor.  Wounded — almost  helpless  as  he 
was — he  felt  the  courage  to  go  to  her.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  appeal  in  her  eyes.  But  Roi's  hot  words 
had  reminded 'him  that,  though  he  might  cross  that  line 
to  the  girl,  he  might  not  cross  it  as  an  officer  in  quest  of 
a  smuggler. 

The  border  code  is  not  to  be  broken  lightly.  The 
governments  of  great  countries  guard  the  acts  of  uniformed 
officers  jealously.  While  he  hesitated,  men  came  in 
through  the  big  door.  They  were  early  wayfarers  seeking 
the  wares  of  Beaulieu's  Place.  They  grinned,  under 
standing  only  one  phase  of  the  scene.  Vetal  and  his 
loaded  truck  and  Smuggler  Dave  Roi  were  safe  in  sanctu 
ary,  holding  at  bay  one  of  the  hated  customs  spies  of  the 
border.  They  were  witnesses  whom  even  a  crazed  lover 
could  not  disregard. 

Aldrich  exchanged  a  despairing  look  with  the  grief- 
stricken  girl  and  turned  away  with  a  groan.  The  full 
folly  of  his  insane  resolution  was  revealed  to  him  as  the 
mists  of  passion  cleared  from  his  brain:  Evangeline  Beau- 
lieu  was  with  her  father,  and  what  right  had  Norman 
Aldrich  to  interfere  between  father  and  daughter? 

"That's  right,  you  Yankee  sneak,  pass  on  about  your 
business,"  blustered  Roi,  brandishing  the  jug.  "You've 
got  your  hint  to  keep  out  of  my  business." 

Aldrich  was  at  the  door.     He  whirled  on  his  heel. 

"I'll  have  my  settlement  with  you  later,  Roi,"  he  cried, 
hotly. 

"  My  business  is  a  bad  business  for  you  to  mix 
into." 

"It's  a  business  where  you're  too  much  of  a  coward  to 

40 


BEAULIEU'S    GIRL 

cross  the  line  and  attend  to  it  yourself.  You  hire  men  to 
do  your  dirty  work." 

Framed  in  the  sunshine  at  the  door,  he  took  off  his  cap. 
He  paid  no  more  heed  to  the  oaths  and  insults  of  the 
smuggler. 

"Good  morning,  Mam'selle  Beaulieu,"  he  said,  with 
deep  feeling.  "I  shall  never  forget  your  hospitality  and 
your  kindness." 

Jeering  laughter  of  men  followed  him  when  he  went 
out  into  the  morning.  But  he  did  not  mind.  He  carried 
with  him  the  memory  of  that  last  look  from  her  eyes. 

The  sheep  were  gone.  He  saw  no  sign  of  them  to  the 
west  along  the  broad  road.  He  knew  the  habits  of 
smugglers.  He  understood  that  the  great  flock  had  been 
hurried  on  into  the  States.  The  sheep  would  be  divided 
promptly  in  pastures  here  and  there  and  their  identity  as 
smuggled  property  lost  as  soon  as  pasture  bars  were  up 
behind  them  and  they  had  mingled  with  the  flocks  of  the 
smuggler's  agents. 

"It  was  no  sort  of  a  game  for  a  lone  hand,"  he  muttered, 
as  he  plodded  down  the  road,  hugging  his  aching  arm  to 
his  breast.  "I  reckon  I'd  better  be  getting  to  a  doctor. 
I'm  going  to  need  two  good  arms  right  away." 

The  birds  serenaded  him,  their  songs  ringing  in  the 
forest  aisles  to  right  and  left;  the  fresh  morning  tried  to 
comfort  him.  But  his  teeth  were  set  hard  and  his  face 
was  grim. 

At  the  turn  of  the  road  he  paused  and  looked  back. 
No  person  was  visible  outside  of  Beaulieu's  Place.  But 
in  the  morning  silence  he  heard  loud  laughter  still. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  mourned.  "To  have  to  come  away 
and  leave  her  there!  And  yet — 

He  drove  his  hale  arm  into  the  air  with  a  gesture  of  pas 
sionate  despair  and  hurried  on  along  the  Monarda  turnpike. 


IV 


THE    SPIRIT   OF   OLD   ACADIA 

HE  new  arrivals  at  Beaulieu's  Place  con 
sidered  they  had  good  excuse  for  hilarity. 
They  had  seen  a  customs  deputy  routed 
— maimed  and  helpless.  Empty  carts 
crowded  the  yard,  and  the  drivers  were 
within,  herded  around  the  truck.  They 
boasted  of  what  the  wains  had  borne  across  the  line  the 
night  before.  The  Red  Lane — smugglers'  nickname  for 
whatever  route  served  for  their  contraband — had  been 
open  for  glorious  traffic. 

Roi  boasted  loudest  of  all.  He  was  flushed  with  liquor 
and  with  victory.  Three  thousand  sheep  had  been  run 
across  under  the  very  nose  of  an  officer,  he  told  his  lis 
teners.  He  thrust  crumpled  money  into  the  hands  of 
Vetal  and  insisted  on  paying  the  score  for  all.  He  told 
them  what  his  profits  were  on  that  night's  work  and  what 
his  loss  would  have  been  had  luck  gone  against  him. 
He  bragged  of  young  Condon's  prowess  and  vaunted  his 
own  liberality  in  paying  when  a  man  of  his  gang  could 
deliver  the  goods. 

But  Vetal  Beaulieu  did  not  laugh  with  the  rest.  He 
poured  liquors,  growled  curt  replies  to  sallies  from  his 
guests,  and  cast  anxious  glances  at  the  door  through  which 
Evangeline  had  fled.  His  eyes  were  red;  he  staggered 
with  weariness,  exhausted  with  spent  passion.  But  there 
were  those  there  who  wanted  to  spend  money,  and  he 

42 


OLD    ACADIA 

poured  liquors  and  stuffed  the  coins  and  bills  in  his  deep 
pockets. 

The  drivers  of  the  wains  went  away  at  last.  They 
climbed  to  the  high  seats  and  cracked  their  whips,  bawling 
to  each  other.  The  broad  wheels  rumbled  on  the  hard 
road.  One  man  sang  the  burden  of  the  old  Canadian  lilt : 

En  roulant  ma  boule  le  roulant, 

En  roulant  ma  boule. 
Derriere  chez  nous  y  a-t-un-e-tang 

En  roulant  ma  boule. 
Trois  beaux  canards  s'en  vont  baignant. 

Then  from  all  along  the  line  of  carts  roared  the  chorus : 

Rouli,  roulant,  ma  boule  roulant, 
En  roulant  ma  boule  roulant, 
En  roulant  ma  boule. 

Roi  sat  on  one  of  the  hard  chairs,  his  legs  astride  the 
back.  He  listened  to  the  rude  song  as  it  died  in  the 
distance  and  watched  Beaulieu  rinsing  the  glasses. 

"One  of  our  busy  mornings,  eh,  Vetal?" 

The  publican  tossed  his  shaggy  head  with  an  angry  jerk. 

"  Hardly  the  sort  of  a  happy  home  a  convent  girl  would 
take  to?" 

Beaulieu  shot  a  blazing  glance  over  his  shoulder  and  did 
not  reply. 

"Evangeline  has  come  spying — probably  was  put  up  to 
it  by  some  Yankee  sneak,"  pursued  Roi.  "But  you  can't 
afford  to  let  a  girl  run  your  business  for*  you,  Vetal. 
She's  coming  to  herself  all  right.  I  was  glad  to  see  you 
pull  her  into  line  at  last.  She  needed  it.  It's  hell  in  a 
house  when  a  woman  is  boss.  You  never  knew  it  to  be 
different." 

"My  wife  was  not  the  boss  in  my  house.  She  did  not 

43 


THE    RED    LANE 

try  to  be  any  boss,"  cried  the  father.  "And  I  do  not  like 
this  new  time  if  it  make  a  girl  come  home  and  talk  hard 
to  the  poor  old  father  who  have  work  so  hard  for  her." 

"  No  sense  in  any  of  it,"  agreed  Roi.  "And  it's  too  bad 
to  have  a  girl  like  that  spoiled,  Vetal.  Now,  I'm  going 
to  talk  straight  to  you.  We  struck  hands  .on  this  match 
a  good  many  years  ago.  My  father  agreed  with  you 
about  it  in  the  good  old  Acadian  way. ' '  His  potations  had 
made  him  garrulous.  "I  really  have  never  been  very- 
keen  about  your  girl,  Vetal.  I  might  as  well  tell  it  as  it 
is.  It  was  probably  all  right  in  old  Normandy  to  pick  out 
a  girl  for  a  fellow  about  the  time  the  two  of  'em  were  born. 
Usually  it  doesn't  work  very  well  in  these  days.  I've  seen 
Evangeline  a  few  times  up  at  the  convent — and,  honestly, 
a  girl  doesn't  show  up  very  well  in  those  black  dresses. 
I've  seen  a  lot  of  girls  along  the  border  that  I've  taken 
to  a  sight  better.  But  I  tell  you,  Vetal,  it's  all  off  with  the 
other  girls  from  now  on.  I'll  cut  loose  from  'em." 

He  kicked  the  chair  away  from  him  and  strode  about 
the  room. 

"I  didn't  know  she  was  so  handsome  till  I  saw  her  this 
morning.  My  God,  Vetal,  she  is  a  raving  beauty!"  he 
said,  thickly.  "Those  cheeks,  those  eyes,  and  her  red 
lips!  I  never  saw  a  girl  with  that  look  in  her  face.  Hell 
fire  has  been  inside  me  ever  since  I  saw  it.  It  wasn't  for 
me — that  look  wasn't.  Her  eyes  were  on  that  fellow  she 
was  pawing  over." 

"Then  you  better  court  her  yourself,"  affirmed  Vetal, 
sourly.  "You  say  you  run  here  and  there  with  other 
girls  and  don't  know  how  handsome  my  girl  is.  And  you 
stand  here  to-day  and  have  been  the  coward — and  a  girl 
don't  like  that." 

Roi's  face  was  livid  with  rage  and  jealousy. 

"  I  was  taken  by  surprise.  I  was  in  wrong  all  through 
44 


OLD   ACADIA 

it.  I  would  have  done  different  if  I  had  known.  Curse 
me  for  a  fool !  I  never  saw  the  real  Evangeline  Beaulieu 
till  half  an  hour  ago!" 

"If  you  have  wake  up  I'm  glad." 

"I'm  wide  awake  enough  so  that  no  one  will  ever  get 
that  girl  away  from  me.  I'll  fight  the  whole  border  first. 
You  say  yourself,  Vetal,  this  is  no  place  for  her  here  in 
this  joint !  She  has  finished  at  the  convent  school.  You 
can't  send  her  back  to  St.  Basil.  You  told  me  this  morn 
ing  you  wanted  her  to  marry  me." 

"And  then  you  go  to  work  and  smuggle  sheep  under 
her  window  and  make  it  hard  for  me,  who  have  told  her 
you  don't  smuggle." 

"But  I  didn't  know  what  kind  of  a  girl  was  hid  behind 
that  curtain.  Damn  smuggling!  I'll  give  it  up  rather 
than  lose  a  girl  like  that.  I've  got  money  enough.  Here's 
my  talk,  Vetal!  I  want  her.  I  want  her  now.  I'll  show 
'em  something  in  the  way  of  a  handsome  wife  along  this 
border  when  I  buy  new  dresses  for  her.  Get  the  priest  to 
cry  the  banns."  He  beat  the  flat  of  his  hand  excitedly 
upon  Beaulieu's  shoulder. 

"I'd  like  to  have  my  girl  settled,"  Vetal  owned  up. 
The  little  spirit  he  had  shown  once  that  morning  was  gone 
now.  He  tugged  at  his  gray  hair.  He  kicked  aimlessly 
at  cigar  butts  on  the  littered  floor.  "But  she  say  she 
don't  want  to  marry  you,"  he  burst  out. 

"A  whim,  man.  She's  promised  to  me.  I've  got  fifty 
thousand  dollars  tucked  away.  I'll  talk  to  her.  I  know 
how  to  talk  to  a  girl.  And  now  is  the  time  to  talk."  He 
poured  liquor  into  two  glasses.  He  thrust  one  glass  into 
Beaulieu's  hand.  "Here's  sealing  the  old  bargain,  Vetal. 
Here's  to  the  handsomest  girl  on  the  border,  and  here's 
to  a  wedding!" 

He  was  in  the  mood  to  hasten  matters.  He  was  eager 

45 


THE    RED   LANE 

for  another  sight  of  her.     He  went  and  beat  upon  the  inner 
door. 

"Evangeline,"  he  called.  "My  little  sweetheart  Evan- 
geline!  Your  father  wants  you.  I  want  you.  There  are 
things  to  talk  about.  Come  out!" 

She  came  after  a  time,  for  he  was  loud  and  insistent. 
She  was  garbed  in  black — the  dress  of  the  convent  school. 
The  broad,  stiff  collar,  turned  low  on  her  shoulders,  was 
not  much  whiter  than  her  face. 

"You  should  have  kept  the  bright  dress  on,  little  sweet 
heart,"  said  Roi,  walking  toward  her,  leering  at  her  in  his 
new  passion,  his  burning  eyes  caressing  her  fresh,  young 
contours.  "In  that  bright  dress  you  are  the  handsomest 
girl  I  ever  saw." 

She  avoided  him  and  went  to  her  father. 

"There's  no  need  of  being  touchy,  little  one,"  mumbled 
Roi,  at  her  heels.  Drink  made  him  carelessly  bold. 
"There's  an  understanding  already.  We'll  soon  have  a 
better  one.  If  any  one  has  told  you  I  am  bad,  they  have 
lied.  I  have  been  waiting  for  you.  Ever  since  you  were 
a  little  girl  I  have  waited  for  you." 

She  turned  on  him,  for  his  breath  was  fanning  her  neck. 
She  had  that  in  her  eyes  and  mien  which  had  quelled  her 
father  the  night  before.  Those  big,  unwavering  eyes, 
grave  and  placid  now,  calm  with  the  spiritual  poise  and 
candor  of  maidenhood,  were  not  the  eyes  of  the  border 
maids  with  whom  he  had  fooled  and  philandered.  There 
was  something  he  had  not  seen  in  girls'  eyes  before.  He 
stammered  and  stepped  back. 

"Father,  I  know  what  you  have  planned  in  regard  to 
me  with  David  Roi,"  she  said.  "But  we  shall  not  be 
married  as  you  have  planned." 

"I  have  promised,  my  girl!"  wailed  Beaulieu,  fearing 
her  gaze  of  reproach,  and  trying  supplication. 

46 


OLD   ACADIA 

"But  J  have  not  promised." 

"  It  was  done  by  the  old  Acadian  custom — by  the  custom 
of  the  Beaulieus  when  they  live  in  old  Normandy,"  he 
pleaded.  "And  the  children  are  expect  to  help  the 
fathers  keep  the  pledged  word." 

"But  not  a  word  that  delivers  them  into  shame  and 
bondage,"  she  declared,  firmly. 

"Do  they  teach  you  that  at  your  school,  or  did  you 
learn  it  from  some  Yankee  sneak?"  blazed  Roi,  stung  by 
this  reference  to  himself.  "You  can't  fool  me!  There 
are  plenty  of  folks  along  this  border  who  are  trying  to 
make  good  Acadians  over  into  low-lived  Yankees." 

' '  I  have  been  taught  to  obey  my  father  in  all  good  and 
true  things,"  she  said.  "In  other  things  my  immortal 
soul  shall  tell  me  what  is  right.  Father,  I  have  not 
promised  to  marry  this  man.  Do  not  tell  me  to  marry 
him,  for  I  want  to  obey  you  in  what  is  good  and  right." 

It  was  utter  and  settled  rebellion,  and  Beaulieu  under 
stood  that  no  appeal  could  change  the  determination  of 
that  girl  who  stared  at  him  from  her  black  eyes  with  such 
direct  gaze  that  his  own  eyes  fell. 

"Let  me  talk,"  blurted  Roi,  angrily. 

"I  heard  you  talk  outside  my  window.  I  heard  you 
breaking  the  laws  and  glory  in  it." 

"Oh,  I  say,  it  has  always  been  done  on  the  border. 
My  grandfather,  your  grandfather,  my  father,  your  father, 
have  not  been  thought  any  less  of  because  they  have 
shown  that  they  are  not  afraid  of  the  stingy  Yankees." 

She  stared  at  him  with  such  cold  disdain,  such  provoking 
contempt,  that  he  lost  control  of  himself.  He  remembered 
the  look  she  had  given  another  in  that  room  a  little  while 
before.  He  caught  her  savagely  by  the  hands  and  held 
her.  He  put  his  face  close  to  hers. 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know?  Don't  you  suppose  I 

47 


THE    RED    LANE 

know?  A  nice  excuse  you  are  giving  me !  A  girl  who  h#s 
lived  all  her  life  on  the  kind  of  money  that  Vetal  Beaulieu 
makes!" 

She  straggled,  but  he  would  not  let  her  go.  Vetal 
moved  as  though  to  assist  her. 

"I  have  been  ashamed  of  my  father's  money  since  I 
have  found  out!"  she  cried. 

Vetal  stepped  back,  his  face  hardening. 

"Tell  that  to  a  fool — not  to  me,"  stormed  Roi.  "It's 
that  Yankee — that's  what  ails  you.  You  got  your  eyes 
on  him  when  he  was  sneaking  and  spying  around  St.  Basil. 
You've  been  thinking  of  him  while  I've  been  waiting  for 
you — waiting  for  you  to  come  and  keep  the  promise  that 
our  families  struck  hands  on.  I've  waited  like  an  honest 
man.  I  could  have  had  the  best  between  the  Temiscouata 
and  the  St.  Croix.  And  you're  loving  some  one  else.  I 
tell  you  I  can  talk  to  you,  even  if  your  father  doesn't  know 
how  to  do  it." 

He  should  have  taken  warning  from  her  face.  It  was 
not  the  face  of  one  who  would  deign  to  appeal  or  deny. 
She  was  now  another  being.  She  had  come  from  her  door 
pale,  grave,  wistfully  grieving.  Now  she  was  suddenly 
on  fire — lithe,  tense,  cheeks  flaming,  eyes  blazing.  She 
bent  and  twisted  her  arms  from  his  rude  clutch  with  a 
movement  so  sudden  that  she  freed  herself  before  his 
fingers  could  take  fresh  hold  on  her.  She  struck  him  once 
across  the  face  with  all  her  strength.  She  did  not  retreat. 
She  stood  before  him  so  fearlessly  furious,  so  desperate  in 
her  rage,  that  he  quailed. 

The  coward  in  him  recognized  something  that  thrust  him 
back.  He  might  have  fought  mere  brute  strength;  drink 
had  made  him  dizzy  and  reckless.  But  the  soul  of  this 
slight  girl  mastered  him. 

The  bold  spirit  of  the  Acadian  pioneers  glowed  in  her. 


OLD    ACADIA 

Even  Vetal  sullenly  admired  her  fiery  courage,  though 
rancor,  because  of  her  contemptuous  obstinacy,  swelled 
within  his  breast  and  revealed  itself  through  his  mut- 
terings.  There  was  no  misunderstanding  the  girl's  mood 
at  that  moment.  She  proposed  to  dictate  her  terms. 

"I  will  never  marry  this  man,  father." 

"You  have  make  this  trouble  yourself,"  insisted  Vetal. 
"  If  you  have  act  better  toward  him  he  would  have  take 
you  and  love  you  very  much  and  make  the  nice  home  for 
you." 

"Make  a  home  for  me  because  I  have  no  home  of  my 
own,  you  mean!  Where  is  my  home,  father?" 

"This  where  I  live,"  he  said,  doggedly. 

"Have  you  thought  over  what  I  said  last  night?" 

"I  sat  here  all  the  night  and  do  not  sleep  because  I 
think  of  it — and  I  tell  you  what  I  think,"  he  shouted, 
pricked  by  the  presence  of  Roi  at  this  scene  of  rebellion 
to  authority,  stung  by  thoughts  of  what  the  gossip  of  the 
border  country-side  would  be  if  his  own  daughter  were  to 
rule  his  affairs.  "I  think  I  keep  on  and  run  my  business 
like  I  have  run  it  when  I  have  work  hard  to  make  it  easy 
for  you." 

"I'll  take  not  another  cent  of  this  sort  of  money." 
She  flung  a  gesture  which  embraced  the  loaded  truck.  "I 
begged  of  you  on  my  knees  last  night,  father.  I  tried  to 
talk  to  you  as  a  loving  daughter  should  talk.  I  want  you 
to  be  a  good  man." 

"  Meaning  that  priests  and  customs  hounds  are  the  only 
decent  people  in  the  world,  I  suppose,"  sneered  Roi. 

But  she  kept  her  face  turned  resolutely  from  the 
man. 

"I  will  be  your  obedient  and  true  daughter — I  will 
work,  father,  so  that  you  and  I  may  eat  honest  bread. 
But  this  home — this  cheating  of  the  laws — this  business 

49 


THE   RED   LANE 

which  takes  money  for  poison — I'll  not  endure.  I  will 
not  stay  here." 

"You  say,  then,  like  you  say  last  night,  that  I  must 
break  my  bottles,  throw  away  my  good  business,  and 
give  my  dollars  to  loafers  of  priests?" 

"I  say  you  must  be  an  honest  man." 

"You  have  your  chance  to  marry  and  have  a  nice  home; 
you  have  your  chance  to  be  the  rich  daughter  of  Vetal 
Beaulieu.  You  must  take  one  or  the  other.  I  don't  let 
my  girl  make  the  fool  of  me  among  all  the  people,"  he  de 
clared. 

"No,  I  have  one  more  chance,  father." 

He  scowled  at  her. 

"I  shall  go  away  and  earn  my  own  living — and  wait 
until  you  become  what  a  good  Acadian  ought  to  be." 

He  did  not  rave  at  her  any  more.  His  passion  had 
exhausted  itself.  His  mood  was  that  of  stubborn  anger 
now.  That  secret  fear  of  her  made  him  reject  the  idea  of 
holding  her  against  her  will. 

"I  am  going  away,  father." 

He  tossed  his  hand  at  the  door.  She  gazed  at  him  a  few 
moments,  but  his  hard  eyes  did  not  soften  under  their 
tufted  brows.  She  went  away  into  her  room. 

"Let  her  strike  out,"  advised  Roi.  "She  won't  get 
very  far  or  stay  very  long.  And  when  she  has  had  her 
lesson  she'll  come  home  and  be  sensible." 

Evangeline,  in  her  room,  gathered  the  few  belongings  she 
had  brought  from  St.  Basil,  tied  her  hat  over  her  dark 
curls,  and  came  back  into  the  big  room  where  her  father 
and  Roi  still  waited  in  surly  silence. 

"Good-by,  father,"  she  said,  with  dignity.  "I  shall 
pray  to  the  Good  Mother  for  you." 

"You  have  in  your  pocket,  mebbe,  some  of  that  black 
and  dirty  money  I  have  made  here,  working  hard  for  you 

50 


OLD    ACADIA 

in  this  room,"  he  suggested.  "Perhaps  you  better  not 
take  that  away  from  here.  It's  the  very  bad  money." 

She  flushed.  In  her  distress  that  seemed  a  cruel,  a 
childish  revenge.  But  the  shrewd  old  Acadian  had  a 
reason  outside  of  the  desire  to  humiliate  her.  It  had 
suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  a  penniless  girl  would  not 
be  able  to  go  far  in  the  world.  The  suggestion  of  Roi  was 
bearing  fruit.  After  her  lesson  she  would  be  an  Acadian 
daughter,  meek  and  obedient. 

She  produced  a  few  coins  from  a  purse  and,  turning 
modestly  from  them,  drew  a  tiny  chamois  bag  from  its 
hiding-place  in  her  breast. 

"It's  what  I  have  saved  from  my  allowance,"  she  ex 
plained,  her  voice  steady.  "I  changed  the  money  into 
gold  pieces  and  saved  them."  She  laid  them  and  the 
silver  coins  in  his  outstretched  hands. 

"It's  the  wicked  money — I  suppose  your  fine,  high 
friends  tell  you  about  the  wicked  money  of  your  poor  old 
father,"  he  sneered. 

"I  want  to  remember  that  I  said  good-by  to  you  in 
sorrow,  not  anger,"  she  replied.  "It  is  right  I  should  not 
carry  away  your  money  if  I  am  going  in  disobedience, 
as  you  think." 

She  went  out  of  the  big  door  and  walked  away  down  the 
Monarda  road  and  did  not  turn  her  head  to  look  back  at 
Beaulieu's  Place. 

"Give  a  filly  her  head  if  you  want  to  know  where  her 
hankerings  will  take  her,"  said  Roi,  coming  back  from  the 
door.  He  watched  the  girl  out  of  sight.  "She  has 
headed  straight  into  Yankeeland."  His  face  worked 
with  his  jealous  passion.  "Damn  it,  I'm  not  so  sure  that 
we  ought  to  let  her  go,  Vetal." 

"It's  not  much  of  a  wife  she  make  for  you  the  way  she 
feel  now — not  much  of  a  daughter  she  make  for  me,"  re- 
Si 


THE   RED   LANE 

turned  the  stubborn  master  of  Beaulieu's  Place.  "If 
the  woman  stand  and  rule,  then  the  man  must  lie  and  roll. 
That  has  for  long  time  been  the  wise  say  in  Acadia.  She 
will  come  back  pretty  soon— mebbe  this  night  she  will  come 
back,  for  she's  only  a  girl."  Thus  out  of  his  ignorance  of 
woman's  deep  nature  did  he  fatuously  comfort  his  mis 
givings.  ' '  You  might  go  along  far  behind  and  watch  her, ' ' 
he  suggested  to  Roi. 

"I'm  taking  no  chance  across  that  line  just  yet — 
awhile — not  even  to  follow  Evangeline  Beaulieu,"  snapped 
the  smuggler,  promptly.  "When  the  boys  drift  back 
this  way,  tell  'em  to  meet  me  over  east — I'll  feel  safer 
with  ten  miles  between  me  and  the  boundary." 

He  hurried  out,  mounted  his  horse,  and  clattered  away. 

"If  my  girl  would  only  think  so  good  of  him  as  he 
think  of  himself,"  said  Vetal  Beaulieu  aloud,  listening  to 
the  flying  hoofs,  "it  would  make  a  fine  marriage.  But 
she  don't  pat  his  face  like  she  think  much  good  of  Dave 
Roi." 

It  was  very  still.  The  sun  was  hot  and  high.  Sleepy 
drone  of  insects  had  replaced  the  songs  of  the  birds. 
The  stupor  of  somnolence  descended  on  Vetal. 

He  stretched  himself  across  his  broad  door  in  the  sun 
shine  and  snored,  his  head  on  his  breast.  He  did  not 
want  to  lose  a  customer.  He  knew  that  no  one  could 
enter  without  waking  him. 

Faring  along  the  Monarda  turnpike,  now  in  the  flare 
of  the  high  sun,  now  treading  the  checkerings  of  shade 
and  light  under  the  wayside  trees,  trudged  the  Evangeline 
of  a  newer  Acadia,  self-expatriated. 

Vetal  Beaulieu  would  not  have  slept  as  soundly  if  he 
had  understood  women  better — and  the  resoluteness  of 
one  woman  in  particular. 


V 

DOWN  THE    WORLD   WITH   BILLEDEAU 

NAXAGORAS   BILLEDEAU   came  fid 
dling  through  the  drowsy  noon. 

His  pudgy  little  horse  slouched  along 
sleepily.     The  dished  wheels  of  the  dusty 
buckboard  wabbled  and  revolved  at  about 
the  rate  of  speed  observed  by  the  second 
hand  of  a  respectable  clock. 

Anaxagoras  Billedeau  sat  on  the  buckboard's  seat, 
his  short  legs  crossed,  his  body  doubled  forward — and  he 
was  fiddling  industriously. 

The  reins  were  loose  on  the  dashboard.  The  horse 
plodded  with  wagging  ears,  needing  no  driver.  It  was  the 
fond  belief  of  old  "  Rosum-the-bow " — such  was  Bille- 
deau's  nickname  along  the  border — that  his  horse  so  loved 
the  fiddle's  strains  that  the  music  made  roads  smooth  and 
hills  easy. 

So  now,  when  the  sun  beat  upon  the  white  clay  stretches, 
Anaxagoras  fiddled  for  the  wagging  ears  of  the  patient 
beast — the  shaggy  little  horse  who  drew  this  fiddling 
rover  up  and  down  the  broad  valley  of  the  St.  John. 

No  one  along  the  border  thereabouts  who  did  not  know 
Billedeau!  He  was  very  much  of  a  public  character  in 
the  Acadian  country — the  wandering  minstrel  of  the  plain 
folks  of  the  sloping  valley  fields  and  the  hedging  forest's 
clearings. 

There  is  a  song  of  many  stanzas  extant  along  the  border, 
5  53 


THE   RED    LANE 

and  it  celebrates  the  fame  of  Fiddler  Billedeau.    The 
first  verse  goes: 

If  you've  been  on  Madawaska,  I  guess  perhaps  you  know 

Old  Rosum-the-bow — that's  Billedeau. 
He's  a  short,  fat,  wide  man — way  out — so! 

Oh  yes,  that's  him — that's  Billedeau. 
He  fiddles  for  his  living,  and  he  plays  so  very  nice, 
He  plays  so  long's  you  like  him  for  a  very  little  price — 
For  a  supper  and  a  bottle  of  that  white  morson — 
He  plays  for  kitchen  dances  on  the  North  St.  John. 

Ho,  hi,  ho! 

Rosum  on  the  bow, 
We  like  a  lot  of  music,  oh,  M'ser  Billedeau! 

Ho,  hi,  ho! 

Caper  heel  and  toe — 
You  shall  fiddle  for  my  wedding,  good  M'ser  Billedeau! 

This  was  the  Anaxagoras  Billedeau  who  came  fiddling 
through  the  drowsy  noon.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  haste 
mattered  not  to  him.  For,  wherever  there  was  a  roof  on 
the  border,  he  knew  that  shelter  waited  for  him — shelter, 
food,  and  a  bed,  and  baiting  for  his  little  horse. 

The  horse  stopped,  and  Billedeau  did  not  open  his  eyes. 
There  was  no  hurry. 

But  the  horse  had  seen  a  girl  who  rose  from  beneath  a 
roadside  tree  and  came  so  close  to  the  side  of  the  highway 
that  even  a  sleepy  horse  could  understand  that  she  had 
business  to  transact  with  the  fiddler.  So  the  horse  halted. 
And  when  the  girl  spoke,  Anaxagoras  opened  his  eyes. 

He  did  not  know  the  girl.  But  as  one  who  had  viewed 
all  the  border  beauties  over  the  bridge  of  his  fiddle  for 
many  a  year,  and  therefore  possessed  judgment  in  the 
matter  of  charms,  he  realized  in  his  heart  that  this  girl 
was  entitled  to  reign  queen  over  the  fairest  of  the  others. 

Her  dress  was  black,  her  hair  was  dark,  and  between 
glowed  a  face  whose  eyes  were  anxiously,  eagerly  alight, 

54 


DOWN   THE   WORLD 

whose  lips  were  red  and  parted,  appealingly,  whose  eyes 
were  twin  prayers  to  which  a  saint  would  incline. 

"Bo'  jour,  Mam'selle,"  cried  Anaxagoras,  dragging  off 
his  rusty  hat. 

She  answered  him  in  the  patois  of  the  border — the 
archaic  dialect  of  old  Normandy ;  its  forms  of  speech  have 
persisted  from  the  times  of  the  forefathers,  even  as  the 
strains  of  Jersey  cows  and  Norman  horses  have  persisted 
in  Acadia. 

"I  am  Evangeline  Beaulieu,  M'ser  Billedeau.  I  have 
seen  you  in  the  north  country  at  St.  Basil." 

"Ah,  I  am  the  very  well-known  man,  Mam'selle."  He 
patted  his  fiddle  and  tucked  it  under  the  buckboard's 
seat.  "Those  who  have  the  jolly  feet  remember  me. 
You  have  danced,  eh,  when  my  fiddle  played  the  good 
plon-plon?" 

"I  have  not  danced,  M'ser,  for  I  have  been  in  the  con 
vent  school  ever  since  I  was  a  very  little  girl." 

"Then  the  young  men  have  been  very  sad  all  these 
years,"  he  declared,  with  a  flourish  of  old-time  gallantry. 
"You  are  a  Beaulieu,  eh?  A  Beaulieu  of  Ste.  Agathe? 
A  Beaulieu  of  the  Cote  portage,  or — " 

"I  am  Vetal  Beaulieu's  girl,"  she  confessed,  bravely, 
though  her  lips  quivered.  "Vetal  Beaulieu  of  the  border 
store." 

He  opened  round  eyes.  He  clucked  softly.  He  jerked 
his  head  with  sideways  gesture. 

"You  are  the  girl  of  Vetal  of  the  Monarda  Pike?" 

"Yes,  M'ser  Billedeau.  I  must  tell  you  a  sorrowful 
truth,  for  I  have  a  great  favor  to  ask  of  you.  I  am  going 
away  from  home.  I  am  going  to  earn  my  own  living. 
I  could  not  stay  with  my  father.  There  has  been  sad 
trouble  between  us." 

He  looked  into  her  brimming  eyes  and  then  turned 

55^ 


THE    RED    LANE 

away  to  stare  over  the  tops  of  the  distant  trees  which 
hedged  Monarda  clearing. 

"I  came  home  last  night.  I  did  not  know  before. 
We  do  not  hear  of  many  things  at  the  convent  school.  I 
thought  my  father  was  in  honest  trade.  I  cannot  stay 
there." 

"But  it  is  very  bad  for  the  young  girl  to  leave  her 
father — to  go  off  here  and  there,  where  she  don't  know!" 
He  wrinkled  his  brow  and  surveyed  her  with  compassion. 
"Ah,  it  is  not  a  good  home  for  a  young  girl  in  Monarda 
clearing.  That  is  right.  But  it  may  not  be  a  good  place 
for  a  young  girl  if  she  goes  away  to  some  other  home. 
I  am  an  old  man,  Mam'selle.  I  have  been  about  much. 
I  have  seen.  I  know." 

"I  cannot  go  back  there.  I  have  been  taught  to  know 
what  are  the  wicked  ways,  M'ser.  All  my  life  I  have  been 
taught.  All  the  truth  is  deep  in  here!"  She  patted  her 
breast  with  trembling  hand.  "My  father  should  have 
understood  that  when  a  girl  has  been  brought  up  in  the 
good  way  she  will  hate  wickedness.  He  will  not  change 
from  his  wicked  ways." 

"They  have  taught  you  the  sober  minuet,  and  now  he 
expects  you  to  come  and  dance  the  lively  jig  all  at  once," 
remarked  the  old  Canadian  fiddler,  sagely.  "You  have 
been  made  the  very  good  girl — he  made  you  that  by 
sending  you  to  the  convent  school.  Ah,  no!  He  cannot 
expect  that  you  will  stay  in  that  home  if  he  does  not  make 
it  better.  He  has  some  other  home,  then?"  he  asked, 
shrewdly. 

"He  says  that  I  must  marry  the  man  to  whom  he  has 
promised  me — a  man  whom  I  saw  breaking  the  laws  this 
morning!"  The  flush  deepened  in  her  cheeks.  The 
indignation  of  outraged  modesty  flamed  in  her  eyes. 
"That  man  held  me  and  threatened  me  and  breathed  his 

56 


DOWN   THE    WORLD 

liquor  fumes  in  my  face  and  insulted  me — and  my  father 
did  not  protect  me.  So  I  will  not  go  back  to  that  house!" 

"Perhaps  I  know  that  bad  man?"  he  suggested,  with 
rising  inflection. 

"David  Roi,  who  smuggles!"  she  said. 

He  darted  at  her  such  a  sudden,  strange  look  that  she 
started  back.  His  eyes  narrowed.  He  opened  his  mouth 
to  speak,  and  then  snapped  his  jaws  together.  She  waited, 
curiosity  sparkling  in  her  eyes.  But  Anaxagoras  Bille- 
deau,  after  once  again  threatening  with  open  mouth  to 
speak,  decided  to  hold  his  peace. 

"What  do  they  teach  young  girls  at  the  convent  school 
of  St.  Basil?"  he  asked,  changing  the  subject  so  suddenly 
that  the  girl  blinked  at  him  in  bewilderment. 

"All  the  things  a  girl  ought  to  know,  M'ser." 

"I  think  that  is  not  so,"  he  cried.  "No,  it  is  not  so! 
For  if  a  girl  has  a  husband  promised  to  her  and  she  has 
not  found  out  that  he — 

He  checked  himself  again. 

"I  will  listen  and  be  thankful  for  what  you  tell  me," 
she  entreated. 

"We'll  go  on  to  that  business  you  spoke  to  me  about 
— that  favor,"  he  said.  "That  will  be  my  own  busi 
ness." 

"Where  are  you  going,  M'ser  Billedeau?" 

"Ah,  here  and  there,  where  they  may  want  the  fiddle 
to  play."  He  had  recovered  his  smile  and  his  gallantry. 
"It  makes  no  difference  to  my  old  horse  and  me,  so  long 
as  we  do  not  hurry.  For  a  door  is  always  open,  whether 
it's  there  or  here." 

She  came  close  to  the  dusty  wheel,  nerving  herself  to 
make  her  appeal. 

"I  do  not  know  any  one.  I  have  no  money.  I  shall 
have  to  tell  you  that  part  first,  M'ser.  I  gave  my  little 

57 


THE    RED    LANE 

stock  of  money  back  to  my  father.  I  want  to  go  north 
to  the  big  school  in  Pere  Leclair's  parish — to  the  Yankee 
school.  Do  you  know  it?  It  is  the  new  school,  and  I 
have  been  told  they  need  teachers  there — teachers  who 
can  speak  the  Acadian  tongue." 

"I  have  heard  about  that  new  school.  It  is  said  that 
the  Yankees  have  built  it  there  so  that  all  the  boys  and 
girls  of  the  border  may  be  trained  to  be  Star-spangled 
Yankees."  He  grinned  shrewdly  at  her. 

"I  want  to  go  there,  M'ser.  Can  you  take  me  there? 
I  will  pay  you  out  of  my  first  earnings.  I  will  pay  well — 
all  you  may  tell  me  to  pay — for  I  know  no  one  else  to  ask 
for  such  a  great  favor." 

"It  is  many  miles,  Mam'selle.  My  little  horse  is  old. 
He  cannot  travel  very  fast — and  here  and  there  I  must 
stop  to  fiddle — for  they  will  not  let  me  pass." 

"I  will  not  be  impatient — I  will  not  trouble  you.  I  do 
not  know  how  to  get  there  unless  I  may  go  with  you." 

He  fingered  his  nose,  pondering. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  crooked  way  by  the  stage-coaches,"  he 
admitted — "a  long  journey  and  a  stop  here  and  there  for 
the  night.  I  think  it  would  be  bad  for  a  young  girl  who 
did  not  know.  And  I  have  no  money  to  lend  you  for  that 
journey,  Mam'selle.  I  do  not  need  money  for  myself, 
where  all  the  folks  of.  the  country-side  are  so  generous  and 
kind  to  me.  They  take  me  in,  and  they  are  very  glad  to 
see  Anaxagoras  Billedeau  and  his  fiddle,"  he  said,  boasting 
as  a  child  would  boast. 

"  I  fear  I  have  asked  for  too  great  a  favor,"  she  faltered. 
"They  would  not  be  pleased  to  see  me  coming,  for  I  have 
no  money  for  my  food  and  shelter.  I  will  not  urge  you 
further." 

She  turned  away,  but  he  stopped  her  with  a  cry. 

"It  is  not  that — it  is  not  as  you  think,  Mam'selle.  I 

58  ' 


DOWN   THE    WORLD 

have  talked  too  much.  It  is  my  fault — I  gossip  and  I 
talk.  Oh,  they  will  be  glad  to  see  you  come  with  me — 
the  poor  people  will  be  glad  to  see  you  come.  For  the 
poor  people  are  not  like  the  rich  people.  The  doors  are 
open,  and  they  do  not  make  excuses.  So  I  have  been 
wrong  in  making  excuses  to  you." 

He  climbed  down  from  his  buckboard's  seat.  He  stood 
before  her,  old  hat  in  his  hand. 

'"  "I  forgot  politeness  in  making  my  excuses,  Mam'selle. 
I  have  talked  too  much  about  my  poor  wagon,  my  slow 
horse,  and  the  long  road  to  the  north.  I  think  I  must  have 
talked  that  way  because  you  deserve  the  very  grand 
chariot  of  a  queen." 

He  bowed  and,  though  her  face  was  suffused  with 
blushes,  she  understood  the  old-fashioned  Acadian  stock 
too  well  to  take  umbrage  at  this  extravagant  compliment. 

"To  you  I  offer  it  all — and  to  you  I  offer  the  hospitality 
of  the  homes  of  my  friends — for  they  would  be  very  angry 
with  me  if  I  did  not  speak  now  in  their  names  to  a  girl  who 
needs  the  hand-clasp  and  the  kind  words.  You  shall 
have  those  words  from  my  friends — the  poor  people — as 
we  travel  on.  I  will  take  you  to  the  big  school.  I  shall 
thank  you  for  your  company  on  the  way.  Your  hand, 
Mam'selle!" 

She  extended  her  trembling  little  hand,  and  he  helped 
her  to  the  seat  of  the  buckboard. 

"If  we  go  slow  you  will  be  patient,  eh?"  he  asked, 
smiling  at  her. 

She  answered  him  incoherently,  for  tears  were  stream 
ing  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  was  sobbing. 

"We  shall  not  worry  any  more,"  he  said,  soothingly. 
"If  we  go  slow  we  shall  not  worry.  No  harm  will  come 
to  us,  for  all  the  poor  folks  are  friends  of  Anaxagoras 
Billedeau,  and  you  shall  find  that  they  will  be  friends  to 

59 


THE    RED    LANE 

you.  And  we  shall  come  safely  to  the  big  school  at 
last." 

After  a  time  her  tears  ceased — they  had  been  tears  of 
gratitude — tears  of  relief  rather  than  of  sorrow.  She 
listened  gratefully  to  the  old  man's  chattering. 

Their  way  took  them  through  a  forest  where  cool 
vistas  of  beech  and  maple  stretched  away  to  right  and  left 
and  where  white  birches  lurked  in  the  green  coverts  like 
snowy-garbed  dryads  peeping  timidly. 

Farther  on,  at  a  wayside  spring,  he  stopped  and  lifted 
up  to  her  a  draught  of  sweet  water  in  a  bark  cup,  and  when 
he  shared  his  food  with  her  from  his  little,  round,  wooden 
bucket  she  ate  with  the  appetite  of  youth.  There  was 
chicken  laid  between  thick  slices  of  cool,  moist  bread — 
breast  of  chicken  as  white  as  the  bread.  There  were 
nut-cakes;  there  were  crinkled  cookies  with  caraway  seed 
sprinkled  among  flakes  of  sugar  on  their  tops. 

"Ah,  I  have  the  good  friends  here  and  there  who  pack 
my  little  bucket  when  I  ride  away  in  the  morning,"  he 
said.  "It  is  good  to  live  in  the  world  with  many  friends. 
Perhaps  I  do  very  little  to  earn  the  good  things  they  give 
me,  but  they  are  poor  folks,  and  they  have  not  many  things 
to  be  gay  about — and  the  music  makes  them  gay.  So  I 
play  plenty  of  music  for  them,  night  or  day." 

"To  make  folks  happy — to  make  folks  forget  their 
troubles,  that  is  worth  while,  and  you  deserve  the  good 
things  they  give  you,"  she  said.  She  was  thinking 
bitterly  of  the  traffic  of  Beaulieu's  Place. 

"Many  think  no  good  at  all  of  a  man  unless  he  do 
something  to  make  much  money,  Mam'selle." 

"I  know  a  man  who  boasts  about  how  much  money  he 
has,  but  it  is  money  that  would  burn  the  hands  of  an 
honest  man."  She  was  thinking  then  of  David  Roi. 

"Ah,  so  I  go  on  through  the  good  country,  from  St. 


DOWN   THE    WORLD 

Croix  to  the  north,  and  I  hope  I  do  right  if  I  keep  the 
poor  people  happy,"  he  told  her.  "Maybe  old  Billedeau 
is  needed  for  something." 

He  leaned  back  and  sang,  beating  time  with  his  palm 
upon  his  dusty  knee: 

Quand  on  est  si  bien  ensemble, 

Bon  soir,  mes  amis,  bon  soir. 
Devrait  on  jamais  se  laisser, 

Bon  soir,  mes  amis,  bon  soir, 
Bon — soir! 

The  old  horse  plodded  with  swaying  head  and  flapping 
ears.  Through  checkerings  and  patches  of  light,  under 
the  shade  of  the  big  trees,  they  went  on.  They  seemed 
to  have  the  woods  to  themselves  that  afternoon.  Their 
progress  was  slow,  but  mile  after  mile  was  notched  off 
behind  them  by  the  windings  of  the  road. 

The  girl,  looking  behind  now  and  then,  felt  comforted 
by  the  trees  which  seemed  to  march  into  the  way  by  which 
they  had  come,  closing  ranks  after  her  like  sentinels  who 
guarded  her  flight.  It  was  not  leaving  home — Beaulieu's 
Place  had  never  been  her  home. 

Every  now  and  then  she  felt  the  yearning  of  a  girl  who 
was  homeless,  and  she  was  frightened.  But  Vetal  Beaulieu 
in  all  the  years  of  her  girlhood  had  left  her  in  the  hands  of 
others ;  and  love  for  a  parent  does  not  wax  and  grow  great 
without  the  food  of  association  and  affection  on  which  to 
feed.  When  she  thought  of  Vetal  Beaulieu's  traffic  and 
his  determination  to  persist  in  it,  when  she  remembered 
the  insolence  of  Dave  Roi  and  his  leering  love-making, 
the  tears  left  her  eyes,  and  she  turned  her  face  to  the 
front.  And  when  she  gazed  that  way,  though  she  strove 
with  maidenly  modesty  to  put  it  from  her  thoughts,  she 
saw  the  face  of  the  young  officer  to  whom  her  hands  had 
ministered  that  morning. 

61 


THE    RED    LANE 

So  fared  Evangeline  Beaulieu,  homeless  and  penniless, 
into  the  north  country,  her  squire  an  old  fiddler  as  home 
less  as  she — but  a  smile  lighted  his  face,  he  lilted  gay 
songs,  and  the  cheer  of  his  companionship  soothed  her 
fears. 

They  came  out  of  the  forest  at  last.  There  were  fields, 
and  a  few  little  houses  were  dotted  along  the  road. 
.  Children  came  running  to  meet  them  when  they  were 
near  the  first  house.  They  leaped  and  shouted,  did  these 
couriers,  pointing  behind  them  toward  their  elders  who 
stood  waiting  in  the  road. 

"Come  to  our  house,  M'ser  Billedeau!"  screamed  the 
children.  They  cried  their  names.  They  came  crowding 
around  the  slow-moving  buckboard.  "It  is  to  our  house 
you  must  come  with  your  fiddle.  Pere,  mere — they  say 
so." 

"Ah,  the  good  friends,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling  on 
his  wistful  charge  at  his  side.  "You  see,  Mam'selle,  I 
have  told  you  the  truth  about  my  good  friends." 

Men  who  were  garbed  in  fuzzy  gray,  women  whose 
black  eyes  beamed  greeting,  met  them  at  the  roadside. 

The  old  fiddler  pulled  his  horse  to  a  halt  and  stood  up 
and  shouted  his  salutations. 

"We  shall  divide!  You,  Felix  Bourdoin,  you  shall  have 
my  old  horse  for  your  barn.  I  will  stay  with  the  good 
Cote's.  For  there  is  the  fine  floor  for  the  dance." 

He  came  down  from  the  buckboard. 

"But  there,"  he  said,  indicating  the  blushing  girl,  "is 
the  guest  who  will  make  the  house  bright  wherever  she 
may  go." 

Half  a  dozen  gaily  shouted  invitations.  Grizzled 
farmers  smiled  on  her  and  took  off  their  hats.  Youths 
grinned  shyly  at  her.  Girls  came  pressing  forward. 

"She   shall   go   with   Elisiane    Beaupr£,"    announced 
62 


DOWN  THE    WORLD 

Billedeau,  and  they  accepted  his  dictum  with  good-humor. 
Their  smiles  showed  that  they  enjoyed  his  jovial  tyranny. 
"You  shall  take  her  home,  Elisiane.  She  is  Evangeline 
Beaulieu,  who  is  going  for  to  be  a  teacher  in  the  big  school 
in  the  north;  and  she  travels  with  Anaxagoras  Billedeau, 
for  he  can  show  her  along  the  way  so  many  fine  scholars 
who  will  follow  her  to  that  good  school." 

It  was  introduction,  explanation,  all  in  one.  It  was 
tactful;  it  was  comprehensive.  They  took  her  to  them 
selves.  A  pretty  girl  slid  her  arm  about  Evangeline's 
waist  and  drew  her  away.  There  were  no  questions — no 
suspicious  oglings.  Other  girls  came  laughing  behind. 

"You  shall  all  come  with  gay  ribbons  to  the  dance  to 
night,"  the  old  fiddler  called  after  them.  "I  shall  make 
the  grand  music." 

There  were  many  children  in  the  Beaupr6  family.  The 
little  cottage  was  full  of  laughter.  They  crowded  about 
the  table  when  the  supper  was  set  forth.  But,  though  the 
laughter  was  loud  and  the  jests  frequent,  the  lonely  girl 
received  the  constant  courtesy  due  to  the  honored  guest. 
The  buoyancy  of  the  Acadian  nature  was  in  her  soul. 
She  revived  as  a  flower  revives  when  kissed  by  the  sun 
and  bathed  with  dew.  The  jollity  was  the  sunshine; 
the  simple-hearted  hospitality  the  dew. 

The  trammels  of  a  convent  school  did  not  brood  over 
that  board.  The  woes  that  beset  her  could  not  live  in 
that  atmosphere.  Sometimes  the  tears  were  very  close 
to  the  smiling  eyes — for  this  was  a  real  home,  and  she, 
poor  waif,  had  none  then. 

In  the  dusk  she  went  gaily  with  them  to  the  Cot£  house. 
Billedeau,  tuning  his  old  fiddle,  smiled  at  her.  She 
tried  to  tell  the  youth,  who  came  to  her  bashfully,  when  the 
fiddler  nudged  him,  that  she  could  not  dance. 

4  4  Ho,  every  girl  can  dance, ' '  shouted  Billedeau.  4 '  Every 

63 


THE    RED   LANE 

girl  can  dance  when  my  fiddle  sings  to  'em.  You  are 
the  honored  guest  of  the  Beaupre"  clearing  to-night.  You 
shall  lead  the  march  with  that  fine  boy — and  then  you 
shall  learn  the  figures  of  the  dances,  for  all  the  hands  will 
be  out  to  help  you." 

And  all  the  hands  were  out! 

When  the  round,  June  moon  rose  redly  over  the  spruces 
in  the  east  and  flushed  the  clearing  with  ruddy  hues,  they 
all  left  the  Cote"  kitchen  and  danced  on  the  greensward 
before  the  open  door. 

The  old  man  played,  his  wrinkled  face  pressed  close 
to  his  fiddle,  smiling,  crying  his  jokes  to  them  as  they 
danced,  singing  now  and  then. 

The  pallet  in  the  Beaupre"  attic  where  the  children  slept 
was  narrow,  and  the  niche  behind  the  curtain  was  small. 
But  the  stars  of  the  wide  heavens  twinkled  serenely  in 
Evangeline's  eyes  before  she  closed  them,  and  her  soul 
drank  in  that  serenity,  and  she  slept;  and  in  her  dreams 
she  danced  with  one  who  was  tall  and  bronzed  and  tender 
and  loving,  and  who  bent  his  crisp  curls  to  her  dark  hair 
and  whispered  something  which  made  her  blush  there 
in  the  night  where  only  the  round  moon  could  see. 


VI 

THE  ANCIENT   PROBLEM   OF  THE   CROWDED   LAND 

HE  rising  sun  quivered  hotly  behind  its 
gridiron  of  trees,  and  the  day  promised 
warm. 

The  little  horse  was  put  early  to  the 
buckboard  so  that  they  who  were  journey 
ing  to  the  north  might  make  the  best  of 
their  way  in  the  cool  of  the  morning. 

The  good  folks  waved  their  farewells  behind — the 
children  ran  beside  the  buckboard  as  far  as  the  turn  of  the 
road. 

"Good-by,  M'ser  Billedeau!  Come  to  make  us  gay 
again!"  was  the  cry  which  followed  the  old  fiddler  and  his 
passenger  until  they  were  deep  in  the  forest. 

It  was  cool  there.  The  beeches  shook  drops  of  dew 
upon  those  who  passed  beneath.  The  fresh  fragrance  of 
the  morning  woods  came  to  their  nostrils — moist  waftings 
from  clumps  of  witch-hobble  where  the  damp  soil  was 
odorous,  balmy  whiffs  from  fresh  verdure,  aromatic  savors 
from  lowly  patches  of  pennyroyal  where  cobwebs  spread 
their  dew-spangled  fabrics — fairy  handkerchiefs  dropped 
in  revels  overnight. 

That  was  Billedeau's  suggestion,  that  last. 
"Those  little  folks — those  merry  elves — they  forget 
when  the  fairy  fiddles  play;  they  dance  very  wild  and 
they  have  lost  their  lace  mouchoirs." 
Evangeline  smiled  at  the  conceit. 

6S 


THE    RED    LANE 

It  seemed  a  long  way  behind  her — that  desolate  yes 
terday. 

The  woods,  the  fields,  the  companionship  of  poor  people 
of  simple  faith  and  kindly  joys,  comforted  her  more  surely, 
more  sweetly,  than  words  of  sympathy. 

Nature,  on  her  screen  of  wood  and  sky,  slipped  pictures 
in  such  deft  and  quick  succession  that  there  was  no  time 
for  mournful  introspection.  A  deer  was  silhouetted  on 
a  distant  slope ;  rabbits  cocked  inquiring  ears  and  peered 
through  tangle  of  brakes.  Birds  caroled  in  the  mad  joy 
of  June. 

When  at  last  they  came  out  of  the  forest  into  the 
fields  again,  she  looked  up  at  the  snow-puffs  of  clouds  in 
the  lazy  sky  and  inhaled  the  scents  of  ripening  straw 
berries  in  the  wayside  grasses. 

One  more  turn  of  the  road,  and  Evangeline  gasped 
when  the  scene  opened.  They  had  come  upon  the  mighty 
valley  of  the  St.  John.  They  were  on  the  hills.  Far 
below  them  the  azure  river  mocked  the  sky.  The  little 
waves  twinkled  where  the  breeze  brushed  whorls  upon  the 
water.  A  bateau  crept  along  the  farther  bank,  its  oars 
flashing  with  silvery  light.  Cows  strolled  on  pasture 
swards,  sheep  trickled  in  Indian  file  among  the  rocks. 
Sounds  of  farm  and  field  rose  to  their  ears — restful  sounds 
made  faint  by  distance.  The  girl  forgot  the  dusty  buck- 
board,  the  hard  seat,  the  dished  wheels  rattling  against 
the  hillside  rocks  and  ledges.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
was  floating  over  this  panorama  on  a  magic  carpet. 

"I  have  thought  sometimes,  Mam'selle,"  said  the  old 
man,  speaking  softly  in  the  mellow  Acadian  patois,  "that 
I  would  like  to  go  after  death  and  fiddle  merry  music  for 
the  fairy  dances.  But  when  I  see  the  valley  of  the  good 
St.  John  I  think  I  would  like  another  work  for  all  the  days 
of  eternity." 

66 


THE    CROWDED    LAND 

He  swept  his  hand  with  a  broad  gesture.  The  imagina 
tion  of  his  race  lighted  his  face. 

"I  would  like  to  have  God  give  me  the  new  mind  and 
put  me  among  the  artist  angels  who  keep  so  very  busy  and 
happy  copying  out  new  plans  for  the  other  worlds  the  good 
God  is  building." 

Her  heart  swelled.  This  imagery  was  fantastic,  but 
she  understood  him.  This  wrinkled  and  rusty  old  man 
had  the  soul  of  a  poet,  but  his  poor  gifts  gave  him  only  one 
avenue  of  expression — his  fiddle. 

"A  wise  man  has  written — and  I  have  read  it,  that  the 
soul  is  made  up  by  good  wishes — that  good  wishes  make 
the  soul  what  it  will  be — what  it  will  accomplish  in 
Paradise,"  she  told  him.  "You  are  a  good  man,  M'ser 
Billedeau.  I  have  heard  of  you  many  times.  And  per 
haps  to  good  men  comes  that  which  they  wish  for  when 
they  wish  very  much.  The  wish  may  be  whispered  to  you 
as  a  hint  that  it  will  come  to  you." 

The  road  led  them  down  the  hill  by  winding  ways  until 
they  were  close  upon  the  water  by  the  river-bank.  There 
were  houses  in  plenty  now.  They  were  set  closely  along 
the  main  road  which  followed  the  river.  All  were  little 
houses.  Rarely  was  there  seen  one  which  boasted  of  a 
brick  chimney.  Sheet-iron  funnels  served.  Most  of  the 
houses  were  unpainted,  were  weather-stained.  About 
all  of  them  many  children  played. 

The  children  cried  shrill  greetings.  Women  flourished 
salutes  from  doorways,  smiling. 

"We  hope  you  have  the  time  to  come  and  stay  with  us 
pretty  soon,  M'ser  Billedeau?"  was  a  frequent  hail. 

It  was  plain  from  their  eagerness  that  only  the  presence 
of  his  passenger  prevented  them  from  being  more  insistent 
then  and  there. 

"They  are  the  poor  people — they  have  many  mouths 

67 


THE    RED    LANE 

to  feed,"  confided  the  fiddler.  "But  they  are  the  very 
jolly  people,  for  they  work  hard  and  they  save,  and  so 
they  have  the  good  things  to  eat  and  a  ribbon  or  two  for 
the  feast  days  and  the  Sundays — a  tithe  for  the  priest, 
and  a  spare  crust  for  the  fiddler  when  he  comes." 

He  pointed  to  the  windows  of  the  little  houses  where  a 
bit  of  lace  in  the  fore-rooms  fluttered  at  the  pane — 
pathetic  hint  of  housewifely  longing  for  grace  and  beauty. 

"Ah,  that  is  what  I  would  do  if  I  had  the  much  money 
as  some  men  have  it,"  said  Billedeau.  "I  would  bring 
each  mother  new  curtains  for  the  front  windows;  I  would 
bring  each  little  girl  a  new  ribbon  for  her  hair.  Phut! 
There  are  so  many  folks  with  money  who  think  the  poor 
people  need  only  corn-meal  and  pork." 

Now  the  highway  skirted  the  river  closely.  Sometimes 
the  road  dipped  so  that  the  splash  of  the  twinkling  waves 
was  very  near;  then  the  way  mounted  to  the  hillside. 

The  hills  on  either  side  were  high  and  domed.  The 
slopes  were  set  thickly  with  fences.  The  farms  were  hard 
ly  more  than  narrow  lanes.  These  strips  ran  back  a  mile 
— two  miles — to  the  fringe  of  woods  on  the  polls  of  the 
hills. 

At  the  foot  of  each  narrow  wedge  of  a  farm,  on  the  high 
way,  was  the  little  cottage  of  the  owner. 

"Once  they  were  the  big  farms — the  broad  farms," 
explained  Anaxagoras.  "They  were  the  big  farms  when 
our  grandfathers  came  up  here  from  Grand  Pre",  Mam'selle. 
There  was  plenty  of  room  up  here  for  the  poor  refugees. 
But  in  these  days — you  see!"  he  said,  sadly. 

"Perhaps  they  have  not  told  you  at  the  convent — but 
our  Acadian  folks  are  not  like  the  other  French  people  in 
Canada,  Mam'selle.  They  do  not  want  to  run  away  from 
their  homes  to  the  big  cities  to  stifle  themselves  in  the  mills 
where  the  cotton  dust  flies  instead  of  the  thistle-down  and 

68 


THE    CROWDED    LAND 

the  sky  is  only  an  iron  roof.  Our  Acadian  children  want 
to  stay  on  the  good  St.  John,  where  their  fathers  and  their 
mothers  live  so  happy.  So  when  the  boys  grow  up  and 
marry,  then  the  good  father  takes  a  slice  off  his  farm — and 
the  slice  must  be  made  long  so  that  the  boy  may  have  his 
little  house  on  the  long  pike ;  the  slice  must  be  made  nar 
row,  for  there  are  other  boys  to  grow  up;  there  are  girls 
to  marry  and  bring  their  husbands  to  the  home  where 
their  old  folks  live.  Ah,  the  Acadians  get  no  joy  out  of 
life  when  they  are  taken  away  to  the  big  city — when  they 
cannot  live  on  the  St.  John,  where  their  fathers  and  mothers 
have  been  so  happy  all  the  years.  But,  Mam'selle,  the 
farms  of  the  old  habitants  have  all  been  sliced  up.  You 
may  see  for  yourself,  when  you  look  up  at  the  hills. 
I  do  not  know  what  must  become  of  the  little  children  who 
are  playing  here  to-day — who  will  grow  up  and  want  to 
live  here  and  make  good  citizens." 

She  pointed  far  ahead  into  the  hazy,  blue  distance  where 
dark  forest  growth  notched  the  horizon  line,  where  the 
hills  were  thatched  with  woods  unbroken. 

"They  must  buy  new  land  and  cut  down  the  trees  and 
make  farms  as  the  fathers  did  so  many  years  ago,"  she 
said,  out  of  her  innocence. 

He  shook  his  head,  sorrowfully,  his  elbows  on  his  knees. 

"It  should  be  so,  Mam'selle.  For  they  are  worthy 
people,  and  they  work  hard  and  they  make  good  folks  for  a 
country  to  have.  But  I  am  very  sad.  I  have  watched 
this  thing  grow  bad  through  all  the  years.  There  are  some 
Yankees  who  are  good.  They  want  the  Acadians  to  live 
on  this  border  and  make  the  border  seem  good  to  those 
who  look  across  from  the  Province.  But  there  are  other 
Yankees  who  are  not  good.  They  think  of  the  money 
first.  They  do  not  care  if  the  Acadians  go  away  from  the 
border.  They  have  bought  up  the  lands  where  the  big 

6  69 


THE    RED    LANE 

trees  are.  They  will  not  sell.  I  know  many  good 
Acadians  who  go  to  them  with  money — plenty  of  money 
in  their  hands — and  try  to  buy  the  lands  for  the  sons  or 
the  daughters.  But  no,  they  will  not  sell.  They  say, 
'Boh!  We  do  not  want  Canucks  near  our  timber-lands, 
chopping  down  trees,  setting  fires.  There  is  much  money 
in  our  trees.  We  want  the  money.  We  do  not  care  about 
the  farmer.  Go  away  to  some  other  place!'" 

"And  so  they  must  go?"  asked  the  girl,  wistfully. 

"Ah,  they  do  not  go  away — many  of  them  do  not  go 
away,"  cried  the  old  man.  "And  I  am  afraid — I  am 
afraid!  I  see  some  very  bad  things  for  this  border.  I 
see  hatred  and  I  see  men  fighting,  and  I'm  afraid  that  there 
will  be  bitter  killing  and  great  sorrow." 

She  stared  at  him  with  frightened  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  not  say  such  things  to  you,  Mam'selle. 
But  you  tell  me  you  hope  to  teach  in  the  big  Yankee 
school,  eh?  Then  perhaps  you  will  remember  some  things 
I  tell  you,  and  you  can  tell  them  to  others  who  will  be 
willing  to  help  the  poor  Acadians.  There  are  Yankees 
who  are  good.  Perhaps  they  will  help  if  you  talk  to  them. ' ' 

She  looked  up  at  the  peaceful'  hills  swelling  against  the 
sky,  at  the  patient  men  who  were  bowed  over  their  tasks 
in  the  sloping  fields,  at  the  trailing  flocks  and  the  grazing 
herds. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  gasped. 

"They  do  not  understand — the  others  do  not  under 
stand — they  who  see  only  the  outside  of  things,"  he  de 
clared,  with  much  bitterness.  "The  stingy,  the  money- 
loving  Yankees  who  have  bought  all  the  woods  do  not 
understand — and  they  do  not  want  to  understand.  They 
sneer  at  the  'Canucks,'  so  they  call  them.  They  do  not 
understand  what  love  of  home  and  the  river  and  the  soil 
is — what  home  means  to  these  poor  people  who  have  so 

70 


THE    CROWDED    LAND 

little.  'Go  away,'  they  say  to  the  poor  people,  who  have 
worked  so  hard  and  have  saved  the  little  money  and  beg 
to  buy  the  land.  '  Go  away.  We  can  make  more  money 
from  the  trees.  We  do  not  want  you  for  citizens.  Leave 
your  wife  and  your  children  and  come  to  work  in  our 
woods  if  you  like — but  we  don't  care  about  homes  and 
farms.'" 

"But,  ah,  Mam'selle,"  he  cried,  with  passion,  "those 
poor  Acadian  peasant  people  remember  when  their 
fathers  came  up  this  river,  struggling  with  their  rafts, 
fighting  their  way  past  the  falls  and  over  the  shallows, 
for  to  make  their  home.  And  they  were'  here  before  those 
Yankees  ever  heard  of  this  valley.  The  farmers  say  that 
they  have  the  right  to  own  land  now  on  which  to  set  their 
feet  and  build  their  little  homes.  They  say  the  Yankees 
shall  not  tell  them  to  go  away,  after  their  fathers  have 
discovered  this  for  the  homes  of  Acadians.  They  ask  to 
be  allowed  to  buy;  and  when  the  Yankees  say  no — then, 
Mam'selle,  I  am  afraid.  For  the  Acadians  are  taking 
— here  and  there  they  are  taking.  And  they  say  'Our 
money  is  ready.  We  will  give  our  money.  We  will 
not  give  up  our  homes.'" 

She  was  silent.  The  landscape  had  lost  its  brightness, 
suddenly,  she  felt. 

"This  is  not  the  fine  talk  for  a  young  girl  to  listen  to," 
said  Billedeau,  breaking  the  silence.  "I  had  forgot  my 
self,  Mam'selle.  I  always  forget  myself  when  I  talk  about 
the  sad  thing  that  has  come  up  along  the  border.  I'll 
talk  no  more.  You  know  now  how  bad  it  is.  Perhaps 
you  can  talk  sometimes  to  some  one  wise  and  strong  among 
the  Yankees.  For  it  is  very  bad.  Our  poor  people  are 
settled  on  fifty  thousand  acres  of  land,  where  they  have 
no  title  that  the  law  makes  good.  Some  have  been  put 
off.  Others  have  been  threatened.  I  have  heard  rumors. 


THE    RED    LANE 

It  is  said  that  the  Yankees  who  own — or  who  have  bought 
titles  from  those  who  say  they  do  own — are  angry  now, 
and  will  come  to  take  what  they  say  is  theirs.  But  on 
some  lands  Acadians  have  lived  for  many  years.  I  do 
not  know  how  it  will  all  fall  out,  Mam'selle,  but  I  am 
frightened  by  my  thoughts.  The  Yankees  are  stern  and 
greedy — but  the  Acadians  are  dangerous  when  they  are 
stirred,  Mam'selle.  You  and  I  can  realize  it  better  than 
the  Yankees.  I  feel  the  old  blood  stirring  me  once  in  a 
while,  and  I  am  reminded  that  the  patient  folks  have  hot 
fires  that  they  must  keep  smothered." 

Only  once  in  her  placid  life  till  then  had  unbridled  pas 
sion  overmastered  Evangeline.  She  had  not  fathomed  the 
depths  of  her  Acadian  temperament  until  her  soul  had  re 
belled  at  the  insults  of  David  Roi. 

"I  understand,  M'ser  Billedeau,"  she  said,  quietly — 
but  she  remembered  the  fury  which  Roi  had  evoked,  and 
she  was  frightened  by  that  memory. 

They  rode  along,  busy  with  their  own  thoughts  for  a 
long  time. 

It  is  a  well-worn  saying  in  New  Acadia  that  tongues 
distance  the  telegraph. 

Start  a  bit  of  news  at  St.  Francis  on  the  north  and  it  is 
south  at  the  Mellicite  portage  as  though  it  were  really 
the  winged  word. 

Therefore,  the  information  that  Fiddler  Billedeau  was 
on  the  St.  John  highway  distanced  the  fiddler  in  his  slow 
progress. 

A  man  who  came  galloping  bareback  on  a  fuzzy  horse 
emerged  from  a  branch  road  and  stopped  Billedeau  with 
joyous  shouts. 

"Saint  Xavier  has  sent  you  to  us,  good  Fiddler  Bille 
deau  !  To-night  the  son  of  Supple  Jack  Hebert  is  to  marry 
the  pretty  Joe  Rancourt  girl.  We  have  tried  to  get  word 

72 


THE    CROWDED    LAND 

to  you.  But  we  have  not  been  worried — we  knew  that 
the  good  saint  would  send  you  because  Marie  Rancourt, 
she  have  pray  very  hard.  So  come  along  behind  me  to 
the  Bois-de-Rancourt  clearing." 

He  whirled  his  horse,  flourishing  his  hand  delightedly. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  the  mien  of  that  messenger.  It 
was  understanding,  complete;  the  word  to  Billedeau — 
that  was  all! 

The  old  man  turned  hesitating  gaze  on  the  girl  at  his 
side  before  he  lifted  the  reins. 

"It  is  not  midday,  Mam'selle,  and  we  have  come  slow 
— and  the  big  school  is  far  ahead.  They  take  much  for 
granted  on  the  border,  when  it  is  a  word  to  the  old  fiddler." 

"You  warned  me  we  should  come  slowly,"  she  said, 
with  a  smile.  "And  it  would  make  me  very  sad  to  think 
of  the  wedding  without  the  music." 

"Ah,  you  make  the  fine  companion  for  the  fiddler  who 
plays  for  the  poor  people.  I  shall  tell  them  what  you 
said — and  you  shall  see!" 

He  turned  his  old  horse  into  the  side  road  which  wound 
sinuously  up  the  hillside  away  from  the  river.  When 
they  topped  the  slope  they  were  again  in  the  forest.  The 
man  on  horseback  summoned  them  on  excitedly  with 
tossing  hand.  He  was  bringing  the  crowning  joy  of  the 
wedding.  He  was  eager  to  show  his  prize,  to  receive 
plaudits  from  a  chattering  throng  and  drink  his  portion 
of  the  white  rum. 

It  was  a  crooked  way  and  a  rough  road,  but  Evangeline 
rode  joyously.  The  spirit  of  youth  was  in  her,  and  she 
had  already  sipped  of  the  simple  cup  which  exhilarated 
that  Acadian  country-side.  She  journeyed  on  to  the 
Rancourt  wedding  with  thirst  for  more  of  the  gaiety  of 
the  poor  people. 

If  Vetal  Beaulieu  could  have  seen  that  look  on  his 

73 


THE    RED    LANE 

daughter's  face  he  would  have  been  less  remorseful  for 
his  stubborn  anger  when  he  turned  her  forth  into  the  world 
alone. 

Vetal  Beaulieu  came  near  to  beholding  that  look.  For 
he  passed  the  mouth  of  that  side  road  only  a  little  while 
after  Evangeline  had  gone  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  into 
the  forest.  He  was  alone.  He  was  clattering  along  in  a 
buckboard,  his  elbows  akimbo,  his  lips  pursed  with  clucks 
to  his  horse.  He  did  not  look  to  right  or  left.  He  had 
been  told  on  the  St.  John  road  that  Fiddler  Billedeau  was 
far  ahead,  and  that  with  him  in  his  buckboard  was  a 
pretty  girl;  with  that  clue  Vetal  was  pursuing.  Shame 
and  his  haste  prevented  him  from  asking  more  questions 
as  he  passed  along  the  road  to  the  north. 

Otherwise,  he  would  have  surely  learned  that  there 
was  to  be  a  wedding  that  night  in  the  Rancourt  clearing, 
and  he  would  have  been  saved  a  long  chase  past  that 
side  road  which  led  over  the  brow  of  the  hill.  For  where 
a  wedding  was  he  would  have  understood  that  there  would 
Anaxagoras  Billedeau  be  also! 

Past  the  narrow  farms  and  the  little  houses,  on  toward 
the  north  country  hurried  Vetal. 

He  had  shuttered  the  windows  and  barred  the  big 
door  of  Beaulieu's  Place,  when  remorse  and  sudden  panic 
of  fear  for  his  daughter  had  sent  him  forth  on  his  quest. 
But  now  that  his  chase  was  taking  him  far  afield,  when 
turn  after  turn  of  the  road  ahead  failed  to  disclose  the 
fugitive,  his  covetous  thoughts  ran  backward,  though  his 
eyes  peered  ahead.  He  knew  that  many  fists  had  beaten 
upon  the  door  that  day — that  much  money  had  gone  on 
in  pockets  of  disappointed  wayfarers.  He  remembered 
that  he  had  turned  away  customers  when  he  had  stormed 
and  wept  all  the  long  night.  In  all  the  many  years  Beau 
lieu's  Place  had  never  turned  away  customers  till  then. 

74 


THE    CROWDED    LAND 

"It  shall  be  how  I  say  after  this,"  he  muttered  irefully. 
"She  shall  come  home  and  be  Beaulieu's  girl.  I  will 
take  her  home.  She  shall  not  shame  me  by  running 
about  this  border.  I  shall  beat  the  ears  of  Fiddler 
Billedeau  and  take  her  home,  and  she  shall  marry  Dave 
Roi." 

He  wondered  why  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  dominat 
ed  by  her  even  for  a  little  while.  In  his  wrath  he  planned 
retaliation.  There  were  ways  of  breaking  a  woman's 
spirit — it  had  been  done  before  by  Acadian  fathers. 

The  houses  thinned  out.  The  forest  was  ahead.  Vetal's 
horse  slowed  his  gait  to  a  walk.  The  afternoon  was 
wearing  on,  and  the  publican  squinted  doubtfully  at  the 
big  trees. 

He  had  passed  his  days  at  the  loaded  truck,  selling 
drams  and  bottles;  he  did  not  know  the  country  of  the 
border.  The  long  road  led  to  the  north — he  had  followed 
it.  But  those  woods  might  enfold  him  when  night  fell! 

"Ba  damn!"  snarled  Vetal.  "That  fiddler  must  have 
wheels  on  that  old  horse  and  push  him  along  very  fast 
with  saplings  for  reins!" 

He  was  cheered  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  horse 
man.  Here  was  one  who  could  give  him  information. 
The  man  came  cantering  from  the  forest.  But  when 
Vetal  noted  the  cap  of  a  Yankee  customs  officer  his  face 
fell.  And  when  the  man  was  close  up  and  Vetal  saw  a 
bandaged  arm  and  recognized  the  officer  as  Norman 
Aldrich,  his  face  became  a  study  as  a  mask  for  emo 
tions. 

The  young  officer  hurried  past  with  loose  rein,  flinging 
only  a  glance  at  Vetal,  who  bent  his  head  and  did  not 
look  up.  That  attitude  was  suspicious  in  a  land  where 
it  is  the  custom  to  raise  the  hat  to  all  strangers  who  may 
pass.  Aldrich  checked  his  horse  and  looked  back. 

75 


THE    RED    LANE 

Vetal,  in  desperate  need  of  information,  had  stopped, 
and  was  just  nerving  himself  to  ask  questions. 

The  two  looked  at  each  other,  and  it  was  plain  that 
both  lacked  words  to  fit  the  case. 

Vetal  noted  one  fact  which  interested  him.  Aldrich 
carried  a  rifle — an  unusual  weapon  for  a  customs  officer 
on  the  border. 

"Well,  you  seem  to  have  something  on  your  mind," 
said  Aldrich,  first  to  recover  himself.  "Is  there  anything 
I  can  do  for  you,  sir?" 

The  officer's  tone  hinted  very  plainly  that  Vetal  Beau- 
lieu  did  not  occupy  a  very  exalted  position  in  his  regard. 

"You  might  let  me  know,"  said  Vetal,  stung  by  this 
frank  contempt,  "how  you  and  some  other  folks  I  can 
tell  you  about  get  so  far  in  one  day  or  two  day.  I  would 
like  to  get  there,  too." 

' '  I  don't  understand, ' '  returned  Aldrich,  stiffly.  ' '  When 
a  man  has  a  bad  wound  he  naturally  gets  where  he  can 
have  it  cared  for.  I  don't  lose  any  time  in  getting  back 
to  where  I  have  business." 

Beaulieu's  eyes  fell  under  the  indignant  stare. 

"While  you  have  fly  about  so  fast  have  you  seen  my 
girl,  Evangeline?"  he  asked.  If  he  had  calculated  on 
immediately  shifting  the  talk  from  a  topic  he  feared  he 
succeeded  admirably. 

"Has  she  gone  away  from  home?"  Aldrich  gasped. 

Vetal  shrewdly  decided  that  this  astonishment  was 
real. 

"Then  you  don't  meet  her  with  Fiddler  Billedeau  on 
this  road,  eh?"  He  pointed  his  whip  at  the  woods. 

"I  have  not  seen  her.  Why  should  she  be  with  Bille 
deau?"  He  slapped  his  horse  and  hastened  to  the  side 
of  the  buckboard.  He  leaned  over  the  father,  who 
blinked  up  at  him,  alarmed  by  this  sudden  fire  of  eager- 

76 


THE    CROWDED    LAND 

ness.  "Are  you  searching  for  her  on  this  road?  Hurry 
up — why  do  you  think  she  is  with  Fiddler  Billedeau?" 

All  of  Beaulieu's  suspicions  were  aroused — it  was 
plain  to  him  that  Roi's  hint  had  foundation.  His  sullen 
grudge  was  stirred  to  the  depths. 

"Has  she  gone  away  from  your  place?  Is  she  with 
Billedeau?  Why  is  she  with  the  fiddler?"  demanded 
Aldrich,  excitedly. 

"I  think  perhaps  she  go  to  pick  up  the  pennies  the  folks 
throw  to  him  when  he  fiddles,"  growled  Vetal.  He  jerked 
the  reins  and  started  his  horse.  He  kept  on  toward  the 
forest,  too  angry  to  care  which  way  he  traveled.  He 
cursed,  beating  his  horse  along.  He  growled  his  convic 
tions  aloud.  Roi  was  right — there  was  something  be 
tween  his  girl  and  this  hated  Yankee.  Here  was  where 
she  had  got  her  foolish  notions  about  what  had  always 
been  done  by  shrewd  folks  on  the  border — what  always 
would  be  done.  And  if  she  could  not  have  her  own  way 
about  the  business  of  her  poor  old  father  and  the  man 
who  wanted  to  marry  her  and  give  her  all  the  good  things, 
then  she  would  run  away  and  hunt  up  the  Yankees? 
Well,  he  would  see  about  that  thing !  He  lashed  the  horse 
on.  When  he  got  his  hands  on  her  he  would  show  the 
gossips  that  he  was  boss  in  his  own  house,  and  that  his 
girl  could  not  disgrace  him  by  running  around  the  country 
side  with  fiddlers  and  customs  sneaks. 

Aldrich  stared  after  Vetal  until  the  buckboard  had 
rattled  out  of  sight  among  the  trees. 

He  had  ridden  many  miles  from  the  north  down  the 
river  road  that  day. 

There  was  no  Fiddler  Billedeau  in  that  direction.  He 
was  sure  of  it. 

South?  He  was  hastening  south.  He  had  swung  to 
his  saddle  from  the  surgeon's  door,  though  the  man  of 

77 


THE    RED    LANE 

needles  and  gauzes  had  warned  him  impatiently.  He  had 
ridden  with  an  arm  that  throbbed  and  a  head  that  ached, 
and  every  now  and  then  dizziness  filmed  his  eyes.  But 
the  Monarda  turnpike  summoned  him  south.  There  was 
business  there  in  his  line,  he  told  himself.  His  rifle 
nudged  his  ribs  as  he  cantered.  They  needed  a  lesson  on 
the  Monarda  turnpike.  It  should  be  given  promptly, 
or  half  the  effect  of  it  would  be  lost. 

He  rode  on  after  Vetal  had  disappeared. 

However,  when  the  officer  came  to  the  first  of  the  nar 
row  farms,  he  began  to  make  inquiries  regarding  Fiddler 
Billedeau. 

Aldrich  was  a  young  man  who  was  fairly  candid  with 
himself — a  trait  which  is  rarer  than  one  might  suppose. 
He  owned  up  to  his  own  soul  that,  when  he  had  decided 
that  duty  called  him  south,  the  picture  of  a  girl  was  before 
him — a  girl  whose  cheeks  were  on  fire,  whose  eyes  prayed 
to  him;  a  girl  who  had  been  dragged  by  her  father  across 
a  painted  line  which  marked  the  bounds  of  Aldrich's 
duty  as  an  officer,  but  across  which  his  love  had  rushed 
while  his  feet  retreated. 

So  he  rode  slowly  when  he  came  to  the  little  houses; 
half-shamefacedly  he  asked  for  information  about  a 
fiddler — and  information  merely  dribbled — for  the  folks 
of  the  border  do  not  talk  freely  about  friends  when  the 
questioner  is  a  man  who  wears  the  badged  cap  of  the  United 
States  customs  service. 

But  after  a  long  time  Aldrich  happened  to  find  out  that 
a  wedding  party  was  on  in  the  Rancourt  clearing. 

A  customs  officer  must  be  able  to  put  two  and  two  to 
gether  in  his  business. 


VII 

AT  THE  WEDDING  OP  SUPPLE  JACK'S  BOY 

HEY  danced  out-of-doors  at  the  wedding 
of  Marie  Rancourt  and  Supple  Jack 
Hebert's  boy. 

They  danced  to  the  music  of  Billedeau's 
fiddle,  lighted  by  "flares"  of  birch-bark 
torches,  until  the  moon  rose,  and  then  the 
moonlight  was  enough. 

They  danced  on  the  ground.  The  men  had  beaten  flat 
and  smooth  with  shovels  and  mauls  a  broad  space  between 
the  clearing's  stumps,  begrudging  no  effort,  pounding  the 
earth  until  their  backs  ached  and  their  muscles  were  tired. 
The  girls  had  strewed  on  the  hard  ground  brown  needles 
which  the  pines  had  dropped — had  gathered  them  pa 
tiently  and  scattered  them  plentifully  until  all  the  surface 
of  the  dancing  space  was  glossy.  They  tossed  upon  the 
ground  a  sprinkling  of  the  flowers  of  the  deep  woods — 
boxberry  blooms,  white  violets,  too,  and  clover  heads. 
And  over  the  glossy  needles  and  the  flowers  which  fluttered 
behind  the  flying  feet  the  folks  sped  gaily  to  the  music's 
strains. 

The  bride  was  merely  a  slip  of  a  girl — barely  fifteen. 
But  in  the  Acadian  country  the  homes  are  crowded  with 
many  children,  and  boys  and  girls  who  kiss  and  pledge 
their  troth  marry  very  soon  to  make  a  new  home  of  their 
own.  The  bridegroom  of  this  night  was  not  eighteen. 
"Only  two  more  young  fools,"  said  Supple  Jack,  who 

79 


THE    RED    LANE 

lolled  by  the  side  of  the  dance-ground  and  smoked  his 
pipe  and  looked  on. 

But  his  eyes  shone,  and  he  was  not  dancing  because 
he  did  not  approve,  but  because  he  had  toiled  that  day 
since  sunup,  chinking  with  moss  the  log  walls  of  the  new 
house  where  his  boy  and  his  bride  were  to  dwell.  He 
himself  had  married  still  younger,  and  had  been  a  pioneer 
in  the  Rancourt  clearing  along  with  Marie's  father.  For 
the  old  farm  on  the  river  had  been  sliced  until  fences 
gridironed  it.  There  was  no  room  for  the  last  son  who 
married.  To-night  Hebert's  son  and  Rancourt's  daughter 
began  another  home;  it  nicked  the  edge  of  the  forest; 
it  was  on  ground  which  was  owned  by  those  who  would 
not  sell  to  settlers. 

The  fiddler  played,  and  the  young  folks  danced. 

They  could  not  be  as  happy  as  that  in  the  cities,  in 
the  mills  which  ground  out  the  lives  of  the  boys  and  girls. 
So  declared  the  folk  of  the  Acadian  country  when  they 
heard  that  the  mill-owners  wanted  more  of  the  French- 
Canadian  people.  And  if  the  boys  and  girls  loved  the 
valley  of  the  St.  John,  treasured  the  home  ties,  bound 
there  by  love  of  home  and  family,  by  what  right  was  land 
withheld  from  them?  They  were  ready  to  pay;  they 
had  garnered  the  money  by  toilsome  saving.  What  would 
come  out  of  it  all  in  the  end?  the  old  folks  would  ask  each 
other  when  the  boys  and  girls  married  and  must  need  have 
land  for  the  little  house  and  a  few  acres  for  the  field  and 
the  pasture. 

Threats  had  come  grumbling  up  from  the  far  south, 
where  the  rich  men  lived  in  the  cities — men  who  bought 
vast  tracts  which  they  had  never  seen.  The  poor  folks 
had  heard  the  threats.  Sullen  men  who  wore  badges 
had  brought  lawyers'  papers,  had  thrust  them  into  un 
willing  hands,  and  had  gone  away.  The  poor  folks  had 

80 


AT   THE    WEDDING 

pored  over  the  documents.      It  was  strange  language 
they  could  not  understand. 

They  did  not  trouble  about  them  on  such  a  night  as 
this  when  the  fiddle  sang  and  the  fluttering  flowers 
chased  nimble  feet  over  the  glossy  needles  of  the  pines. 

Aldrich  heard  the  gay  music  in  the  still  night  when  he 
was  far  off. 

He  tied  his  horse  in  the  edge  of  the  forest  and  walked 
slowly  toward  the  place  where  the  young  folks  were 
dancing.  He  came  close,  for  it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish 
faces  in  the  moonlight.  Hebert  and  others  of  the  older 
ones  spied  the  sparkle  of  light  on  the  officer's  badge  and 
cried  out  sharply.  That  note  of  alarm  told  a  piteous 
story  when  one  understood.  It  voiced  the  ever-lurking 
fear  that  underlay  the  thrift  and  toil  of  the  poor  folks  who 
had  crept  out,  acre  by  acre,  upon  the  forbidden  soil. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  the  threats  would  be  made  good. 
What  trouble  did  those  strange  papers  herald?  Here 
was  a  man  who  wore  the  emblem  of  authority,  and  one 
officer  was  the  same  as  another  to  people  who  knew  but 
little  of  the  law. 

The  fiddle  stopped.  The  dancers  halted.  Aldrich 
saw  Evangeline  among  them,  the  flush  of  youth  on  her 
cheeks,  her  lips  parted,  and  her  wide  eyes  searching  his 
face. 

"Go  on,  please,"  he  entreated.  He  had  found  himself 
the  center  of  regard.  Embarrassment  was  in  his  tones. 

"I  have  not  been  invited.     I  ask  your  pardon." 

"All  are  welcome.  It  is  my  son's  wedding,"  faltered 
Supple  Jack,  his  beseeching  eyes  on  the  officer's  cap. 
"You  have  some  business  here,  eh?" 

"None  at  all,  sir.  I  was  passing.  I  heard  the  music. 
It  seemed  very  gay  here.  So  I  stopped." 

He  was  looking  at  Evangeline,  his  soul  in  his  eyes. 

81 


THE    RED    LANE 

"Run  and  bring  the  finest  chair — the  arm-chair/'  cried 
Hebert,  pushing  his  son  toward  the  house. 

"No,  not  for  me,"  expostulated  Aldrich.  "If  I  am 
welcome,  may  I  dance?"  He  stretched  his  hand  to 
Evangeline,  approaching  her  across  the  carpet  of  pine 
needles.  "Will  you  dance  with  me?" 

The  thrill  of  her  soft  palm  against  his  made  him  forget 
all  those  who  stood  about. 

She  touched  his  bandaged  arm. 

"The  doctor  said  it  was  not  bad,  Mam'selle.  He 
scolded  me  about  riding  to-day,  but  I  felt  that  I  must 
hurry  back  to  Monarda  clearing." 

She  trembled  under  his  gaze,  for  the  eyes  told  her  more 
than  his  words.  She  seemed  unable  to  frame  reply. 

"It  will  soon  be  strong,"  he  said.  "What  you  did 
will  make  it  well  very  soon." 

The  fiddle  was  playing,  and  they  danced  with  the  young 
folks,  for  neither  had  words  for  the  other  just  then.  But 
when  hand  met  hand  words  were  not  needed. 

After  a  time  the  plain  little  feast  was  spread  in  the  new 
house  and  the  people  crowded  its  tiny  rooms.  He  stopped 
her  at  the  door. 

"They  will  not  notice  us  just  now,"  he  whispered. 
"But  I  must  know  what  has  happened — why  you  are 
here." 

She  told  him,  the  moonlight  on  her  grave  face.  There 
were  no  complaints,  no  repining,  no  resentment. 

"So  I  shall  go  to  the  big  school  and  work  if  Father 
Leclair  will  help  me,"  she  concluded.  "He  told  us  at  the 
convent  they  needed  teachers." 

"He  is  a  good  friend  of  mine,  Father  Leclair,"  he  said 
to  her.  "  I  know  he  will  help  you.  I  will  ride  north  and 
speak  with  him.  I  will  send  a  fine  carriage  for  you. 
It  is  too  bad— that  old  cart."  He  pointed  at  Fiddler 

82 


AT   THE   WEDDING 

Billedeau's  buckboard,  whose  infirmities  were  revealed  by 
the  moon. 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head  in  gentle  protest. 

"But  he  stops  here  and  he  stops  there — whenever  a 
man  lifts  his  finger  or  a  girl  begs  for  music,  Mam'selle. 
You  will  be  long  getting  to  Attegat  parish." 

"But  I  am  learning  many  things  they  did  not  teach  me 
at  the  convent  school.  I  have  learned  much  in  the  past 
few  days — and  since  I  have  been  with  Fiddler  Billedeau 
I  have  learned  things  which  have  comforted  me.  There 
are  good  folks  in  the  world,  after  all." 

He  understood.  Her  lips  quivered.  The  pathos  of 
this  little  tragedy  of  the  border  would  have  touched  him 
deeply  even  had  he  not  loved  her.  Pity  mellowed  the 
passion  which  swept  him  toward  her.  Love  when  all 
prospers  is  airy,  is  light  and  buoyant.  Love  does  not 
sound  its  full  depths  until  it  is  weighted  with  compassion, 
with  the  longing  to  shield  and  protect. 

"Father  Leclair  is  wise  and  good,"  she  said,  brokenly. 
"I  am  only  a  girl,  and  I  do  not  understand,  perhaps. 
If  he  tells  me  it  is  my  duty  to  go  back  to  my  father  I  will 
go." 

"Father  Leclair  will  not  tell  you  that — he  understands 
the  sort  of  a  place  Vetal  Beaulieu  runs.  Forgive  me, 
Mam'selle!  I  forget  he  is  your  father.  I  forgot  it  the 
other  day.  I  am  sorry  for  what  I  said.  But  I  must  tell 
you  that  your  father  owes  it  to  you  to  make  a  different 
home  if  you  are  to  stay  with  him.  It  is  no  place  for  a  girl, 
there  in  Monarda  clearing." 

They  had  not  minded  the  clatter  of  a  wagon's  wheels. 
Guests  suit  time  to  inclination  at  a  border  wedding. 
Gazing  at  each  other,  they  allowed  the  belated  arrival, 
whoever  it  might  be,  to  come  upon  them  before  they 
turned. 

83 


THE    RED   LANE 

But  this  was  no  jovial  wedding  guest. 

It  was  Vetal  Beaulieu,  furious  at  sight  of  them,  clucking 
oaths,  shaking  his  whip  over  his  head,  gabbling  coarse 
insults. 

"This  is  how  I  find  my  girl,  eh?  You  run  away  from 
my  home  to  meet  the  sneak  dog  of  the  customs,  eh?  You 
abuse  and  shame  your  old  father  only  for  an  excuse — so 
that  you  may  run  away  and  be  a  femme  mauvaise  off  on 
the  sly!" 

Beaulieu  was  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  The 
wedding  celebrators  came  trooping  out.  They  chattered 
in  amazement.  This  was  a  strange  guest,  truly,  for  a 
wedding. 

"Stop  that,  Beaulieu,"  cried  the  young  officer.  "This 
is  no  place  for  such  language." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  pay  attention  to  you?"  demanded 
the  infuriated  man.  "You  meet  me  on  the  road.  You 
lie  to  me.  You  don't  know  where  she  is,  you  say!  And 
then  you  rush  here  and  laugh  at  her  poor  old  father  be 
hind  his  back — laugh  till  he  find  out  by  accident  and  come 
here  to  save  his  girl  from  shame  and  disgrace." 

He  screamed  and  leaped  up  and  down.  He  shook  his 
arms  above  his  head.  He  did  not  pick  words  in  his  rage. 
He  vented  vicious  insults  without  knowing  what  he  said. 

Supple  Jack  Hebert  had  won  his  sobriquet  by  his 
agility.  He  leaped  forward  and  thrust  his  palm  against 
the  obscene  mouth. 

"This  is  my  son's  wedding  night.  There  are  good 
women  and  nice  young  girls  here.  We  don't  listen  to  that 
talk!" 

When  Hebert  took  away  his  hand,  Beaulieu,  cowed, 
was  at  the  other  extreme  of  his  variable  emotions.  He 
was  weeping. 

"I  have  bad  friends.  They  laugh  at  me  behind  my 

84 


AT   THE    WEDDING 

back.  They  help  a  sneak  to  steal  my  girl.  They  let  a 
poor  old  father  lose  his  girl." 

Curious  eyes  were  searching  the  faces  of  the  three 
principals. 

Evangeline  turned  away  sobbing,  her  crimson  face 
shielded  by  her  hands.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the 
rough  walls  of  the  little  house. 

' '  I  have  a  word  to  say  here, ' '  cried  Aldrich.  He  towered 
like  a  giant  among  them,  those  sturdy  little  Acadians. 
"Silence!"  With  one  stride  he  was  close  to  Vetal,  and 
set  a  heavy  hand  on  the  father's  shoulder  with  pressure 
which  intimidated  the  flabby  publican. 

"This  is  the  second  time,  Beaulieu,  you  have  abused 
your  daughter  in  my  hearing — abused  her  more  shame 
fully  than  any  other  man  in  this  wide  world  would  abuse 
her — and  you're  her  father!  Not  one  word!  I  am 
speaking  now!" 

He  dominated  them.  His  mien,  his  passion,  the  fury 
of  his  resolve  to  protect  her,  made  him  one  to  be  feared. 
They  crowded  about,  lips  apart,  eyes  upraised. 

"This  is  Vetal  Beaulieu.  You  know  him.  You  know 
his  place.  It  is  not  for  me  to  interfere  between  father  and 
daughter.  I  have  not  done  so." 

"She  is  my  girl,"  mourned  Vetal. 

"I  ask  you  fathers  and  mothers  who  have  girls  if  you 
would  want  them  to  live  at  Beaulieu's  Place,  where  men 
yell  their  drunken  songs  half  the  night  through  and  stagger 
about  the  yard  in  the  daytime?  No,  I  know  you  would 
not,"  he  cried,  when  they  muttered  indignantly.  "And 
I  know  what  you  think  of  a  father  who  comes  here  to 
night  to  take  his  daughter  to  that  place  which  she  has  left 
in  sorrow  and  shame." 

"She  is  my  girl,"  insisted  Beaulieu. 

"That  is  all  there  is  to  this  man's  wicked  anger — what 
7  85 


THE    RED    LANE 

I  have  told  you.  His  daughter  came  away  because  he 
would  not  be  a  good  man  and  give  her  a  home  she  could 
live  in  as  a  good  girl  should." 

His  simple-phrased  little  speech  had  produced  its  effect 
— he  understood  the  nature  of  the  border  people. 

"It  is  no  business  of  yours,"  muttered  Beaulieu,  who 
understood  the  nature  of  border  people  also. 

' '  It  is  the  business  of  every  honest  man  on  this  boundary- 
line  to  protect  the  name  of  a  good  Acadian  girl — even  if 
it  is  her  father  who  is  telling  untruths  about  her,"  declared 
Aldrich,  with  vigor.  There  was  no  melodrama  in  his 
words  or  actions.  His  tones  were  low.  But  he  spoke 
from  his  heart  —  his  whole  nature  on  fire  in  her  de 
fense. 

"I  know  Vetal  Beaulieu's  place  in  Monarda  clearing," 
stated  old  Rancourt,  judicially.  "And  it's  no  place  for  a 
girl's  home." 

"It  is  as  good  as  a  home  on  stolen  land,"  blazed  Vetal. 
"You  steal  your  land  to  live  on  up  here  and  then  turn  up 
your  noses  at  some  other  man's  business.  I  want  my  girl. 
She  shall  come  home.  I  do  not  allow  Yankee  spies  and 
squatters  who  steal  land  to  run  my  business." 

Anaxagoras  Billedeau  stood  on  the  stoop  of  the  new 
house,  his  fiddle  hugged  to  his  breast. 

"I  know  your  place,  too,"  he  said.  "And  when  I 
came  to  your  girl,  where  you  had  turned  her  out  on  the 
road  with  no  money,  I  brought  her  along  with  me.  And 
I  say,  too,  until  you  have  changed  about,  Beaulieu,  and 
have  chosen  a  husband  for  her  who  is  not  a  renegade 
among  poor  girls  he  has  deceived,  then  I  am  the  better 
father  for  your  girl  than  you  are." 

This  from  a  beggar  struck  Beaulieu,  the  rich  man  of 
the  border,  like  a  blow  across  the  mouth.  He  was  speech 
less.  But  his  arm  worked,  though  his  tongue  would  not. 

86 


AT   THE   WEDDING 

He  lunged  forward  and  lashed  his  whip  across  the  old 
fiddler's  face. 

"More  yet  would  I  suffer  for  her  sake — to  do  some 
service  for  a  poor  girl  who  needs  friends,"  said  Billedeau, 
not  flinching. 

Aldrich  thrust  the  infuriated  Beaulieu  back. 

"I  will  have  my  girl.  I  shall  make  some  bad  trouble 
here." 

"I  have  promised  Evangeline  that  I  will  carry  her  to 
St.  Attegat  where  the  good  P£re  Leclair  will  advise  her 
and  help  her  to  find  work  in  the  big  school,"  Billedeau 
informed  those  who  stood  about  and  who  looked  on  him 
with  compassion,  for  the  stripe  of  the  lash  marked  his 
pale  face.  "  I  do  not  stand  between  father  and  daughter, 
but  I  have  talked  long  with  the  girl,  as  we  have  come 
toward  the  north,  and  I  think  she  has  no  home  until 
Vetal  Beaulieu  changes  into  a  better  man." 

Evangeline  had  turned  to  face  them.  She  resembled 
some  frightened  creature  at  bay,  as  she  leaned  against  the 
wall  of  the  little  house. 

"You  lie  to  me.  I  know  what  is  behind  it  all,"  sneered 
the  father.  "  The  Yankee  sneak  is  stealing  my  girl.  He 
has  hired  this  old  cheat  of  a  fiddler  to  take  her  away. 
He  doesn't  dare  to  do  it  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  folks  of 
the  border.  And  you — all  of  you  are  helping  him." 

"I  don't  like  such  talk  from  you,"  said  Supple  Jack, 
severely. 

"And  I'll  not  endure  such  talk,"  cried  Aldrich.  Anger, 
grief,  and  love  swept  away  prudence.  The  sight  of  the 
anguished  girl,  humiliated  so  cruelly,  so  wantonly,  before 
them  all,  took  from  him  the  self-restraint  that  had  governed 
him  at  the  first  meeting,  when  she  had  been  shamed  as 
ruthlessly  as  now.  He  walked  up  to  the  girl.  He  put 
out  his  hands,  and  after  a  time  she  surrendered  her  hands 

87 


THE    RED   LANE 

to  him.  "You  may  listen,  good  folks  who  are  here,"  he 
said.  "  I  love  Evangeline  Beaulieu  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul.  I  have  nevei  spoken  of  love  to  her  before.  But 
I  want  you  all  to  understand  it.  I  want  only  the  right 
word  to  go  out  about  us.  I  love  her  honestly,  and  I  ask 
her  love  in  return." 

Under  other  circumstances,  in  other  places,  that  dec 
laration  before  gaping  onlookers  would  have  been  cruel 
affront  to  a  girl's  modesty.  But  Aldrich  knew  the  border. 
In  that  primitive  region  where  love  spoke  out  when  it  was 
honest  and  clean,  any  subterfuge  in  matters  of  the  heart 
provoked  suspicion.  A  girl's  reputation  was  at  stake. 
Rumors  travel  fast  in  Acadia — the  lie  as  fast  as  the  truth. 
He  knew  that  the  story  of  Beaulieu's  daughter  would  flash 
from  tongue  to  tongue  along  the  border. 

"A  man  has  a  right  to  love  a  girl,"  he  said.  "I'll  leave 
it  to  you  if  I  am  to  be  blamed  for  loving  Evangeline 
Beaulieu." 

"  If  she  has  ever  given  you  that  fine  look  what  she  give 
you  now,  you  would  be  a  very  queer  man  if  you  did  not 
love  her,"  remarked  Supple  Jack,  with  a  soulfulness  that 
started  a  ripple  of  laughter. 

"Let  it  be  known  that  I  love  her.  And  I'll  not  let  any 
man  insult  her — not  even  her  own  father." 

She  had  not  spoken.  Her  eyes  told  him  all.  He 
pressed  her  hands,  released  them,  and  stepped  back  to  the 
astounded  and  goggling  Vetal. 

"  That  is  the  way  it  stands,  sir.  You  will  have  to  make 
the  best  of  it.  When  you  are  in  a  different  frame  of  mind 
I  will  come  to  you  and  talk  as  man  to  man." 

The  power  to  speak  seemed  to  have  left  Vetal.  There 
in  the  circle  of  faces  he  squinted  about  him  in  the  dim 
moonlight.  There  was  no  misunderstanding  the  attitude 
of  the  throng.  They  were  against  him. 

88 


AT   THE    WEDDING 

"You  better  go  off  home,  Vetal,"  advised  old  Rancourt. 
"We  are  good  friends  to  your  girl,  and  we  don't  think 
your  place  is  the  best  place  for  her." 

They  looked  for  him  to  rage,  but  he  did  not. 

"I  have  promised  her  to  marry  Dave  Roi,"  he  said, 
dully.  "My  word  is  given.  I  have  no  fight  with  you 
people,  who  have  been  fooled  with  lies.  So  I  will  go  home." 

Evangeline  ran  after  him,  when  he  turned  and  started 
toward  his  wagon. 

"Father,  I  say  again — I  say  it  before  all  these  friends, 
I  will  go  home  with  you — I  will  be  a  loving  daughter  if 
you  will  give  up  the  bad  things  and  make  it  a  home  where 
a  girl  can  live  and  be  good." 

"Will  you  help  me  keep  my  promise,  then?  Will  you 
marry  the  man  I  have  chosen  for  you?"  He  stared  over 
her  head  at  Aldrich  with  venom. 

"No,"  she  faltered.     "No!"     She  said  it  more  firmly. 

Vetal's  brief  self-repression  was  shattered.  His  voice 
broke  with  the  shrill  tones  of  hysteria. 

"It  is  you — you  who  steal  a  girl  from  her  father  and 
make  trouble  in  an  Acadian  home,  where  women  have 
obey."  He  threatened  Aldrich  with  his  fists.  "She 
has  not  been  Beaulieu's  girl  since  she  saw  you  at  St.  Basil, 
you  Yankee  spy !  You  have  put  the  notions  into  her  head. 
It  will  be  said  that  Beaulieu's  own  girl  has  mocked  him 
— has  run  off  with  a  Yankee.  The  men  who  come  on  my 
place  will  grin  at  me.  I  have  no  more  comfort.  Even 
the  men  who  owe  me  money  will  laugh  behind  my  back. 
You  have  done  it  all!" 

"I'll  talk  to  you  when  you  are  a  man  again,"  repeated 
the  officer. 

"You  have  told  them  to  listen  to  you!  Now  I  tell  them 
to  listen  to  me.  Send  this  word  along  the  border.  You 
shall  not  have  my  girl." 

89 


THE    RED   LANE 

He  walked  backward,  his  arms  vibrating  above  his 
head. 

"Hear  what  I  say!  You  shall  not  have  my  girl.  I'll 
kill  you  first  so  that  there  shall  be  one  Yankee  sneak  the 
less!" 

"That's  the  very  bad  talk,  Vetal,"  warned  Supple 
Jack.  ' '  For  when  a  man  threatens  and  the  news  goes  wide 
about,  then  it  may  happen  that  there  will  be  blood  on  his 
head,  if  not  on  his  hands."  He  pointed  to  the  officer's 
bandaged  arm.  "There  are  bad  men  on  this  border — 
and  your  talk  may  make  them  bolder." 

"If  it  makes  any  man  so  bold  that  he  will  shoot  and 
kill,  then  I'll  go  to  prison  for  it  if  no  one  else  is  found," 
raved  Beaulieu.  He  climbed  into  his  wagon,  lashed  his 
horse,  and  the  little  group  listened  in  shocked  silence  till 
his  curses  died  in  the  distance. 

Aldrich  drew  the  girl  to  him  and  soothed  her  as  one  seeks 
to  comfort  a  grieving  child. 

"I  hope  you  will  take  this  word  of  advice  from  me 
without  thinking  I'm  the  meddlesome  man,"  said  Hebert, 
wistfully. 

"I  know  advice  from  you  is  from  a  friend,  after  this 
night." 

"So  soon  as  this  word  goes  along  the  border,  then  what 
happens  to  you  or  to  Vetal  Beaulieu,  if  any  bad  thing 
does  happen,  it  will  make  sorrow  and  trouble."  He  nod 
ded  meaningly  at  the  dark  curls  of  the  downcast  head. 

"I  understand.  But  I  want  it  known  that  I  carry  no 
grudge.  I  am  sorry  for  him.  I  hope  he  will  come  to 
himself  and  see  matters  in  a  different  light.  M'ser  Hebert, 
I  have  been  outspoken  this  evening  so  that  there  might 
be  no  misunderstanding  about  my  affairs." 

"There  are  bad  men  on  the  border.  You  shall  be  very 
careful,  or  much  trouble  will  come.  You  shall  think  very 

90 


AT   THE   WEDDING 

hard  before  you  do  this  or  that.  For  Vetal  Beaulieu  has 
men  who  hate  him  and  owe  money  to  him.  A  coward 
may  choose  this  chance." 

It  was  solicitous  warning  from  a  man  who  had 
watched  the  machinations  of  border  feuds  for  many 
years. 

"I  think  much  some  days — I  sit  and  think  much.  I 
am  not  jolly  all  the  time  like  I  used  to  be.  My  wife  she 
notice  that,"  he  burst  out  in  sudden  confession.  "It 
seems  like  very  bad  things  are  in  the  air — someway — • 
somehow.  It  is  not  the  same  on  the  border  in  these  days. 
Once  we  were  here  alone — just  the  poor  Acadians.  Per 
haps  it's  only  because  I'm  getting  old  that  I  dream  in  the 
night  and  wake  and  am  very  frightened.  But  I  hope, 
M'ser,  that  you  will  be  very  careful.  It  is  the  day  of  my 
son's  wedding,  and  I  feel  very  sorry  for  folks  who  love 
each  other  and  have  much  trouble  because  they  love. 
For  we  poor  folks  do  not  have  much  except  the  good 
wife  and  the  nice  children." 

"I  have  brought  my  trouble  here  to  spoil  the  wedding- 
feast,"  lamented  Evangeline.  "I  am  sorry." 

"You  shall  not  think  so,"  declared  the  young  bride 
groom,  coming  to  her,  leading  his  girl  wife  by  the  hand. 
"We  are  truly  sorry  for  you,  dear  Mam'selle,  and  we  hope 
your  worst  trouble  is  all  past,  and  that  you  will  soon  be  as 
happy  as  we  are." 

The  wife  kissed  the  sorrowing  girl  on  the  cheek. 

"Ah,  let  us  have  light  hearts  at  a  wedding,"  cried 
Billedeau  from  the  stoop.  He  set  his  fiddle  under  his 
chin.  He  began  to  play.  The  weal  of  the  whiplash  was 
across  his  cheek,  but  his  wrinkled  face  was  alight  with 
smiles.  "'Dites  la  jeune  belle,  que  voulez-vous  allez?'" 
he  sang,  stamping  his  feet  in  time  to  the  fiddle. 

Then  he  faced  about  and  marched  gaily  into  the  house; 

91 


THE    RED    LANE 

and  they  followed,  marching  two  and  two  to  the  lilt  of 
the  music. 

Aldrich  touched  Evangeline  on  the  arm,  appeal  in  his 
eyes,  and  she  waited  beside  him  until  the  others  were 
within  the  house. 

There  was  no  one  to  spy.  The  instinctive  delicacy  of 
the  French  temperament  realized  that  these  two  would 
have  something  to  say  to  each  other. 

He  knelt  before  her,  for  in  no  other  way  could  he 
exhibit  what  his  heart  prompted.  Mere  words  would  not 
express  all  he  felt.  Act  must  accompany  them.  He  bent 
his  head.  He  had  tossed  his  cap  upon  the  ground.  She 
gazed  down  through  her  tears,  restraining  her  impulse  to 
clasp  his  head  to  her  breast.  He  kissed  her  hand  slowly 
and  then  lifted  his  eyes  to  hers. 

"Forgive  me,  Evangeline,  for  the  brutal  thing  I  did 
before  them  all.  I  should  have  waited.  Such  love  as 
I  have  for  you  is  a  sacred  treasure.  I  did  not  mean  to 
show  it.  But  I  wanted  them  to  understand  for  your 
sake.  Now  I  tell  you  that  I  love  you.  I  kneel  for 
your  forgiveness,  dearest.  I  took  much  for  granted. 
But  there  are  times  in  love  when  one  must  be  bold." 

She  put  her  soft  hands  against  his  cheeks  and  raised 
him  gently.  He  came  to  his  feet  before  her. 

"Yes,  there  are  times  when  one  must  be  bold,"  she 
replied.  "  It  is  bold  for  me  to  be  here — to  say  what  I  am 
going  to  say  to  you.  But  I  am  not  a  coquette.  Wait  one 
moment!"  His  arms  were  about  her.  "There  will  not 
be  other  moonlight  nights  for  us  very  soon.  I  am  going 
to  my  work.  The  people  there  will  not  understand  as 
these  folks  here  understand.  You  must  not  come  to  the 
big  school  to  court  the  daughter  of  Vetal  Beaulieu.  So  I 
tell  you  now  I  love  you — I  love  you — I  am  not  ashamed. 
I  love  you." 

92 


AT   THE   WEDDING 

Her  arms  went  up  around  his  neck,  and  he  smothered 
her  words  in  a  kiss  in  which  soul  pledged  soul. 

A  moment  later  she  struggled  from  his  arms. 

"It  is  forever,"  she  gasped.  "It  is  my  pledge  to  you 
forever.  An  Acadian  girl  gives  her  lips  to  only  one. 
When  all  our  clouds  have  cleared  away  and  you  shall  come 
for  me  I  will  be  waiting." 

He  called  her  back.  She  was  about  to  enter  the  house, 
thinking  that  he  would  follow. 

He  folded  her  in  his  arms  once  more  and  kissed  her. 

"It  is  good  night,"  he  whispered.  "I  can't  go  in  there 
now.  I  want  to  take  my  joy  out  under  the  moon  and  the 
stars  and  consecrate  myself  to  it.  Good  night,  my  beau 
tiful  Evangeline.  I  will  watch  over  you — I  will  be  near 
to  help  you  when  you  need  help.  But  I  understand  what 
your  life  must  be  until  our  troubles  are  arranged;  I'll  be 
prudent — but  I  shall  keep  on  loving  you." 

He  released  her  and  called  his  adieus  to  those  within. 
He  waved  them  back  when  they  rushed  out  with  words  of 
protest. 

"  I  must  ride  on — I  cannot  wait  even  for  the  wedding- 
feast."  He  took  the  glass  which  Hebert  thrust  at  him. 
"  I  drink  happiness  to  bride  and  groom,  and  to  all  within." 
He  turned  up  the  glass  and  sprinkled  the  last  drops  on  the 
threshold. 

He  shut  his  eyes  after  he  mounted  his  horse,  so  that 
he  might  keep  the  memory  of  the  glorified  face  he  had 
singled  from  all  the  others  when  he  turned  from  the  open 
door. 

The  thrill  of  her  kiss  was  on  his  lips  and  the  joy  of 
"I  love  you "  was  singing  in  his  heart. 


VIII 

AN  EDICT   IN  ACADIA 

HOUGH  wet  clouds  swung  low  in  the 
morning  and  the  robins  were  chirruping 
for  rain,  Fiddler  Billedeau  was  ready 
for  the  road  betimes. 

"I  have  a  passenger,"  he  said,  when 
the  good  folks  urged  him  to  wait.  He 
understood  the  look  Evangeline  had  given  him.  "The 
summer  showers  will  not  harm.  The  sun  will  smile  and 
dry  us.  We  must  hurry  on  to  the  north." 

The  men,  the  women,  and  the  children  of  Rancourt's 
clearing  crowded  about  the  old  buckboard.  The  girls 
tied  flowers  from  the  wedding  bouquets  upon  the  horse's 
bridle  and  trimmed  the  thills  with  strands  of  creeping 
evergreen. 

"You  shall  come  again  to  Bois-de-Rancourt  for  the 
next  wedding,"  declared  Supple  Jack  to  the  girl.  "And 
all  the  poor  folks  will  walk  many  miles  some  day  just  to 
hear  the  bells  ring  for  you,  Mam'selle  Beaulieu,"  he  added, 
roguishly. 

"Ah,  they  surely  will  ring  all  in  the  good  time,"  old 
Rancourt  assured  her.  His  shrill  tones  threaded  the  gay 
laughter. 

Then  the  laughter  ceased,  for  two  men  were  tramping 
toward  the  group,  coming  across  the  plot  smoothed  for 
the  dancing.  Hebert  scowled  when  he  saw  them. 

94 


AN    EDICT 

"The  devil  he  hides  behind  some  near  tree  when  Vincent 
and  L'Heureux  come  past  this  way,"  he  growled. 

As  they  came  close  he  called  their  names  and  greeted 
them. 

They  did  not  reply  amiably. 

"You  call  us  those  names,  eh,  to  make  us  mad  some 
more?"  demanded  one  of  the  men.  He  pushed  his 
grizzly  beard  belligerently  close  to  Hebert's  face. 

"Those  names  were  good  enough  for  your  fathers," 
retorted  Supple  Jack,  stoutly. 

"It's  time  to  stop  being  Canucks  when  you  come  to 
live  on  the  States.  My  name  is  Twentyhundred — I  tell 
you  that  for  the  last  time." 

"My  name  is  Happy,"  said  the  other  man.  "And  I 
hope  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  that  again." 

' '  When  you  think  less  about  old  grandfathers  and  think 
more  about  the  new  country  where  you  have  come  to  live, 
you  will  get  along  better,  you  folks,"  stated  Vincent,  who 
had  so  grotesquely  Yankeefied  his  name. 

"I  can  be  a  good  citizen,  and  not  make  myself  very 
funny  with  a  Yankee  name,"  insisted  Hebert.  "If  our 
good  L'Abbe"  have  to  call  himself  Libby,  and  St.  Clair 
turn  himself  into  Sinkler,  and — 

"We  have  not  time  to  bother  only  about  our  own  names," 
broke  in  Vincent.  "We  are  here  to  ask  you  why  you 
have  not  done  as  those  papers  have  told  you  to  do.  They 
are  the  law  papers,  and  we  hand  them  to  you  many  weeks 
ago,  and  you  have  had  plenty  of  time." 

Hebert  drew  a  document  from  his  pocket,  plainly  a 
legal  form.  It  was  worn  and  soiled  with  much  handling. 

"Yes,  I  get  this  from  you.  I  have  study  it  much.  We 
all  have  study.  But  it  tells  us  to  do  what  we  can 
not  do." 

"What  does  it  tell  you  to  do?  We  don't  want  any 

95 


THE    RED    LANE 

misunderstanding  about  this.  What  does  that  paper  tell 
you  to  do?" 

"It  tells  us  to  leave  this  land  where  our  homes  are," 
cried  Hebert.  "But  it  cannot  be  so.  I  think  we  do  not 
understand." 

t-  His  tones  expressed  incredulity,  protest,  grief.  The 
others  crowded  more  closely  about.  The  men  brandished 
papers  whose  worn  edges  and  tattered  corners  revealed 
with  what  assiduity  they  had  been  read.  There  was  a 
chorus  of  expostulation. 

Vincent  raised  his  hands  and  stopped  the  clamor. 

"Myself  and  Mr.  Happy,  here,  are  deputy  sheriffs. 
We  have  nothing  to  do  with  making  laws.  We  don't 
own  this  land.  We  do  not  make  out  those  papers.  You 
are  living  here  on  land  that  belongs  to  other  men.  You 
came  here  and  squatted  when  they  did  not  know.  Now 
they  tell  you  to  leave.  I  explain  it  all  when  I  was  here 
with  those  papers.  But  you  didn't  pay  any  attention, 
you  people.  You  thought  it  was  just  the  old  story  over 
again.  You  thought  it  was  only  threatening,  just  the 
same  as  it  has  been  along  the  border  here." 

"But  these  papers,  they  cannot  turn  us  out  of  the 
houses  we  have  built!  There  was  no  room  on  the  river. 
We  must  live  somewhere.  Our  grandfathers  found  this 
country  up  here.  We  cannot  go  away,"  protested  Hebert. 

"What  you  folks  want  to  do  is  get  up  to  date  a  little," 
stated  Vincent  with  disgust.  "You're  living  on  notions 
a  hundred  years  old." 

"We  are  not  selling  out  to  the  Yankees  and  making  a 
living  off  the  troubles  of  poor  people  after  we  have  changed 
our  names." 

"We  would  be  bad  men  if  we  did  not  do  what  the  law 
tells  us  to  do  when  papers  are  put  into  our  hands.  You 
have  had  the  warning  to  move.  You  did  not  move. 

96 


AN    EDICT 

You  laughed  at  the  law — you  laughed  at  us  behind  our 
backs." 

"No,  we  have  been  very  sad — but  we  could  not  be 
lieve." 

"So  I  notice.  You've  even  been  to  work  and  built 
another  house  here — on  another  man's  land,  chopping 
down  another  man's  timber." 

' '  But  my  son  have  marry !     He  must  have  his  home !" 

"Look  here,  Hebert,"  said  Vincent,  getting  briskly  to 
business,  "go  talk  all  that  to  the  lawyers  and  to  the  men 
who  own  this  land,  or  to  any  one  else.  Happy  and  I  have 
our  orders.  If  you  don't  get  off  this  land  to-day,  quietly, 
we've  got  orders  to  put  you  off  by  force.  If  we  put  you 
off  by  force  we  shall  arrest  every  grown-up  man  here  for 
trespass,  and  take  you  to  jail.  We  don't  want  to  do  that, 
because  it  will  leave  your  families  in  a  bad  way.  Go 
peaceably,  and  the  trespass  cases  will  be  dropped.  Now 
that's  straight  business,  and  I'm  talking  to  you  man 
fashion." 

"No,  we  shall  not  go.  We  shall  not  leave  our  homes. 
We  have  no  place  but  this  one." 

"Happy  and  I  have  come  up  here  alone — hoping  you'd 
see  what  you  have  got  to  do  and  would  do  it — saving 
trouble  for  all  hands.  If  you  want  trouble  we  can  furnish 
it.  We've  got  a  special  posse  of  twenty  men  down  the 
road.  We'll  haul  you  men  out  of  here  to  jail.  It  will  be 
very  bad,  Hebert,"  he  warned. 

He  threw  back  his  coat  and  displayed  his  nickel  badge. 
L'Heureux  followed  suit.  Hebert  clutched  the  tattered 
legal  paper  in  his  trembling  hand  and  stared  at  the  badges. 
The  first  drops  of  rain  were  falling.  The  drops  trickled 
with  the  tears  down  the  faces  of  sobbing  women. 

"Yes,  it  is  very  bad,  Hebert,"  repeated  Vincent.  "But 
if  you  folks  don't  get  up  with  the  times  and  obey  the 

97 


THE    RED    LANE 

laws,  you  can't  expect  anything  else.  The  law  has  to  run 
things,  or  else  there  wouldn't  be  anything  left  to  run  in  this 
country." 

Evangeline  had  listened  to  the  colloquy,  her  eager 
eyes  searching  the  faces  of  the  speakers,  amazement 
deepening  into  veritable  stupefaction.  She  dared  to 
address  this  man,  who  came  with  his  authority  of  the  law 
and  his  brusque  demands. 

"Who  is  there  in  all  the  world  so  cruel  as  to  command 
you  to  do  this?" 

The  beauty  of  this  stranger  in  the  settlement  had  al 
ready  had  its  effect  on  Vincent.  He  had  been  eyeing 
her  with  side  glances  while  he  talked.  He  lifted  his 
hat. 

"The  owners  of  the  timber-land,  Mam'selle.  They 
have  posted  signs — they  have  given  orders  and  warnings 
— now  they  have  gone  to  the  law  to  save  their  property. 
These  folks  cut  down  timber,  they  set  fires  to  burn  slash, 
and  the  fires  spread,  and  so  much  damage  comes  to  the 
fine  timber-lands.  The  owners  must  protect  their  prop 
erty." 

She  remembered  what  Fiddler  Billedeau  had  told  her. 
The  old  man  sat  beside  her  in  the  buckboard,  his  hands 
propping  his  bowed  head,  sorrowing  for  his  friends.  He 
knew  what  the  law  demanded  and  commanded. 

"Why  will  the  rich  folks  of  the  States  not  sell  some  of 
this  land?" 

"It's  not  the  place  for  settlers  where  the  big  trees  are. 
They  have  money  to  buy  only  little  strips  here  and  there. 
They  only  nick  into  the  sides  of  the  woods.  Then  the 
fires  spread  from  their  clearings  and  much  loss  comes. 
It  is  hard  for  these  people,  Mam'selle.  But  they  were 
warned.  They  should  not  be  here." 

All  were  listening.  They  were  hoping  against  hope. 

98 


AN    EDICT 

The  rough  Vincent  was  speaking  gently  to  her.  Their 
simple-minded  faith  looked  up  to  her.  The  grave  self- 
control  of  the  girl  impressed  even  the  deputies. 

"They  have  no  other  place,"  she  said.  "The  valley 
is  crowded.  The  little  farms  are  all  taken.  You  tell 
them  they  must  go.  But  where  may  they  go?" 

He  fumbled  his  grizzled  beard  with  uncertain  fingers, 
squinting  at  her. 

"It's  quite  a  question,  Mam'selle.  But  it's  nothing 
I  have  anything  to  do  with.  They  have  had  their  warn 
ing  and  their  notice.  Best  thing  I  can  suggest  is  that  they 
go  out  and  squeeze  in  among  their  relatives  along  the 
river  until  they  can  settle  with  the  landowners — the  land 
owners  will  pay  something  to  them — there's  something 
in  the  law  about  it.  They  can  take  the  money  and  go 
to  the  mills  in  the  big  cities.  There  is  plenty  of  work  in 
the  mills.  I  have  folks  there.  The  Yankees  want  the 
Canadians  to  come  to  the  mills.  So,  you  see,  it's  best  for 
these  folks  to  go  along  out  of  here  without  trouble.  The 
landowners  will  be  more  generous  if  they  go  without 
trouble." 

"Then  they  must  go?  There  is  no  other  way?"  Her 
voice  trembled  with  appeal. 

With  mouths  open,  eyes  staring  in  silent,  frenzied  ap 
peal,  they  all  turned  from  her  to  the  officer.  The  silence 
was  breathless.  The  wet  wind  swirled  across  the  smoothed 
ground,  where  the  faded  flowers  of  the  wedding  frisked 
in  pathetic  imitation  of  the  gay  folks  who  had  danced  there 
the  night  before. 

"There  is  just  nothing  else  to  do — nothing  else  to  do. 
The  say  isn't  mine,  Mam'selle.  Perhaps  I  talked  rough 
a  little  while  ago.  But  they  have  twitted  me  that  I  have 
sold  out  to  the  Yankees.  They  have  sneered  because  I  am 
earning  my  living  by  carrying  out  the  laws  that  the  big 

99 


THE    RED    LANE 

men  have  made.    They  sneer  at  all  who  carry  out  the 
laws  on  the  border." 

She  flushed,  and  Vincent  did  not  understand  why. 

"I  must  do  my  duty.  I  must  do  it  now.  If  others 
talk  to  the  big  men  and  ask  them  to  change  the  laws  I 
shall  be  glad — for  it  is  all  very  bad — very  bad." 

The  folks  of  Rancourt  clearing  understood.  The  edict 
was  irrevocable.  The  wailing  of  the  women  was  heart 
rending. 

"My  God,  the  bad  fate  is  on  the  poor  Acadians,"  cried 
Hebert.  "And  you  have  taken  us  for  the  example, 
Pierre  Vincent.  The  poor  people  of  Bois-de-Rancourt, 
they  must  be  thrown  out  of  the  homes  they  have  worked 
hard  to  build." 

"There's  no  example  about  this  scrape,  Hebert.  You 
happen  to  be  the  first  ones.  You  have  been  cutting  and 
slashing  and  building  lately,  and  they  have  got  after  you, 
these  owners  have.  The  other  trespassers  will  have  to 
go,  too.  It's  going  to  be  a  clean  sweep.  That's  the  truth, 
though  there  may  not  be  much  comfort  in  it  for  you  folks." 

Old  Billedeau  straightened.  His  face  was  grim — his 
eyes  were  hard.  The  ruthlessness  of  this  attack  on  his 
humble  friends,  the  families  of  the  border  scattered  in 
their  little  hamlets,  had  aroused  him. 

"And  what  do  you  think  will  happen  up  and  down  this 
river,  between  St.  Agathe  and  the  St.  Croix,  Mister 
Twentyhundred,  when  all  the  folks  are  driven  off  these 
fifty  thousand  acres?" 

"I  think  they'll  have  to  go,  Fiddler  Billedeau." 

"You  were  a  Vincent  before  you  grew  so  big  as  to  be 
Mister  Twentyhundred,  and  so  you  have  Acadian  blood. 
So  you  ought  to  know  that  the  very  patient  people  are 
the  very  bad  ones  when  homes  are  taken  and  their  poor 
wives  and  children  are  put  out-of-doors." 

100 


AN    EDICT 

"If  they  want  the  kind  of  trouble  they'll  get  by  start 
ing  in  to  fight  the  whole  United  States,  all  they've  got 
to  do  is  say  the  word.  But  they'd  better  understand  that 
in  this  world  the  law  has  the  last  say-so." 

"It's  a  bad  word  to  go  up  and  down  the  border — the 
word  you  bring  here  to-day.  The  law  says  thus-and-so. 
Very  well!  But  when  the  law  takes  homes  away  from 
women  and  children  and  gives  them  no  land — no  roof — 
then  men  forget  the  law.  The  Acadian  blood  can  make 
some  very  bad  men  out  of  good  men,  Mister  Twenty- 
hundred." 

"You'd  better  have  over  mighty  little  of  that  talk, 
Billedeau." 

"I  am  not  the  one  who  will  make  it.  It  will  be  made  by 
some  others  than  a  poor  fiddler." 

The  officer  turned  away.  He  found  conversation  profit 
less.  He  saw  obstinacy  in  the  faces  of  the  men  about  him. 

"You  have  your  wagons  and  horses,"  he  said,  curtly, 
toHebert.  "  Begin  to  load  your  stuff .  This  thing  must  be 
done.  You  must  move.  If  not,  I  shall  serve  these  war 
rants  and  take  you  away  to  jail." 

He  drew  a  packet  of  papers  from  his  coat  and  beat 
them  on  his  palm. 

He  put  two  fingers  in  his  mouth  and  whistled  shrilly. 

He  saw  that  their  spirits  were  broken  by  the  news  he 
had  brought.  It  was  time  to  rush  this  thing  before  their 
Acadian  natures  had  time  to  rally  to  the  other  extreme. 

"I'm  only  calling  my  men  to  help,"  he  told  Hebert. 
"They  do  not  come  to  arrest  or  make  trouble,  if  you 
move  spry.  They  will  load  your  wagons." 

The  men  came  into  the  clearing  promptly.  The  sight 
of  them  quelled  all  spirit  of  rebellion. 

"Oh,  I  cannot  believe  that  it  will  be  done,"  stammered 
Evangeline,  clutching  Billedeau's  arm. 
8  101 


THE    RED    LANE 

"We'd  better  go,"  he  returned,  tears  on  his  cheeks 
"It  will  be  done." 

She  leaped  from  the  buckboard's  seat  and  went  among 
the  weeping  women,  trying  to  comfort  them;  but  her  own 
sobs  checked  her  speech. 

The  men  rolled  the  settlers'  wagons  before  the  doors 
of  the  houses  and  began  their  work.  Stolidly,  bowing  to 
the  decree,  the  men  of  the  settlement  toiled  with  the 
volunteers.  The  little  houses  were  scantily  furnished. 
There  were  many  for  the  task,  and  the  wagons  were  soon 
loaded.  At  last  the  horses  were  harnessed,  and  the  pa 
thetic  procession  moved. 

"You've  all  got  relatives  on  the  river  road,"  Vincent 
advised  them.  "They'll  take  you  in  until  you  can  get 
your  feet  placed." 

"Your  damn  Yankee  pigs — they  have  left  no  place  for 
these  people  to  place  their  feet,"  blazed  Hebert,  walking 
ahead  of  his  horse.  "They  buy  the  land — all  the  land. 
They  need  it  only  to  grow  their  trees.  We  need  it  for  our 
homes.  But  they  have  their  homes.  They  do  not  care." 

Women  and  children  walked  in  the  road  behind  the 
wagons.  They  carried  fragile  articles  in  their  arms. 
They  stopped  and  gazed  back  at  the  empty  houses  and 
trudged  on. 

It  all  had  happened  so  soon,  had  been  accomplished 
with  such  grim  celerity,  that  Evangeline  could  scarcely 
credit  her  senses,  when  she  stared  about  the  little  settle 
ment.  She  had  remained  until  the  last.  Billedeau  had 
drawn  his  horse  to  one  side  so  that  the  procession  might 
have  clear  way  for  the  loaded  wagons. 

The  doors  were  swung  wide.  One  or  two  rude  toys 
which  had  been  dropped  by  frightened  children  lay  in  the 
yard  near  her.  She  picked  them  up  so  that  she  might 
restore  them.  The  little  new  house  which  had  harbored 

102 


AN    EDICT 

joy  for  one  night  seemed  to  gaze  at  her  with  its  gable 
windows,  and  the  door  was  open  wide  like  a  mouth  ex 
pressing  horror.  There  was  almost  a  human  expression 
in  the  gable — houses  wear  such  when  one  observes  with  a 
bit  of  imagination. 

The  fine  rain  had  made  the  flowers  of  the  dancing- 
ground  sodden,  and  they  lay  still. 

The  girl  went  to  Billedeau  and  climbed  to  the  seat  of 
the  old  wagon. 

"And  it  was  only  last  night  that  your  fiddle  sang  to 
them  and  they  laughed  here,"  she  said,  choking.  "I  try 
to  believe  it's  true,  what  I  am  looking  at,  M'ser  Billedeau. 
I  try  to  understand  it.  I  cannot." 

As  they  turned  the  corner  of  the  trees  she  looked  be 
hind,  her  eyes  on  the  new  house — her  gaze  on  the  door 
beside  which  she  had  stood  when  Aldrich  held  her  in  his 
arms.  The  little  house  marked  the  spot  where  her 
woman's  soul  was  given  to  another — where  she  had  heard 
the  dearest  words  a  woman's  ears  can  receive — the  little 
house  still  gave  her  its  look  of  dumb  horror. 

"If  this  is  only  the  first  one,  there  are  bad  times  ahead 
for  this  border,"  mourned  the  old  man.  "It  is  good  to 
be  patient — it  is  wise,  sometimes,  to  be  meek — but  some 
men  who  stay  away  from  here  and  make  the  laws  and  hire 
them  carried  out — those  men  may  find  there  is  hot  fire 
under  the  old  ashes.  I  am  frightened  when  I  think." 

They  followed  the  sad  procession  down  the  winding 
road  to  the  river  and  waved  farewells  and  saw  it  depart  in 
search  of  shelter  among  the  little  cottages  that  were 
already  overcrowded. 

Billedeau  slapped  the  reins  on  the  flanks  of  his  old 
horse  and  turned  him  north. 

Evangeline  found  in  her  hands  the  rude  toys  she  had 
brought  from  the  settlement. 

103 


THE    RED   LANE 

"I  will  keep  them,"  she  whispered  to  herself.  "One 
shall  be  my  token  of  joy.  The  other  shall  remind  me 
every  day  that  the  poor  people  of  the  border  must  suffer 
until  some  one  goes  to  the  rich  men — some  one  who  is  wise 
and  bold." 

The  old  fiddler  put  some  of  her  own  thoughts  into 
words. 

"Those  big  men  far  away  from  here — they  who  sleep 
on  their  stacks  of  dollar  bills  like  pigs  on  straw — they 
cannot  be  made  sorry,  for  their  hearts  are  too  hard,  but 
perhaps  they  can  be  made  ashamed." 

"Where  do  they  live,  M'ser  Billedeau?" 

"Very  far,  Mam'selle.  I  don't  know  where.  They  do 
not  come  to  see  what  they  own.  The  money  takes  legs 
and  hurries  away  to  them  as  fast  as  the  trees  are  cut  down 
and  sold.  But,  wherever  they  live,  I  wish  it  could  be 
known  what  they  make  the  poor  folks  suffer,  and  then  good 
men  would  point  their  fingers  and  make  them  ashamed  in 
the  place  where  they  live." 

"That  is  not  the  way,"  she  cried  hotly,  flashing  her 
eyes  at  the  meek  old  man.  "  They  should  be  dragged  here 
by  strong  men.  They  should  be  made  to  look  on  while 
the  women  and  children  are  turned  out  of  their  homes. 
Then,  if  they  did  not  relent,  strong  men  should  beat  their 
faces  and  make  them  give  justice." 

He  blinked  at  her,  startled  by  this  sudden  outburst 
in  one  whom  he  had  thought  so  gentle.  He  found  in  her 
face  the  same  expression  that  had  made  Vetal  Beaulieu 
quail — that  had  cowed  David  Roi. 

"It  is  there — it  is  underneath — it  is  in  the  Acadian 
blood,"  he  pondered.  "It  is  most  of  all  in  the  women. 
But  it  is  in  the  men  when  they  are  backed  to  the  wall. 
It  is  not  wise,  what  the  rich  men  plan  to  do." 


IX 


THE   PARISH   OF   GOOD   FATHER   LECLAIR 

HE  good  Pere  Leclair  was  on  his  knees. 
He  was  not  at  his  devotions. 
In  overalls  and  jumper  he  was  crawling 
about    on   the    moist    and    odorous    soil 
of  his  kitchen  garden.     He  always  weeded 
his  vegetables  as  scrupulously  as  he  kept 
the  tares  from  his  daily  life. 

The  warm  sun  caressed  his  bent  back — the  frisky  June 
breeze  played  with  the  long  locks  of  his  white  hair.  An 
old  hound,  to  whom  the  garden's  neat  expanse  was  ground 
forbidden,  sat  on  the  edging  turf  as  near  as  he  dared  and 
beamed  on  his  master  with  adoring  eyes. 

The  garden  was  on  a  fair  and  fertile  slope  which 
stretched  from  the  little  stone  house  to  the  river  whose 
broad  breast  was  flashing  that  June  day  with  sunlight 
from  a  myriad  of  facets. 

Father  Leclair's  great  barn  towered  over  the  little 
stone  house.  The  parish  of  Attegat  paid  in  tithes  to  the 
priest — with  potatoes,  with  beans,  with  corn,  with  hay 
and  oats  for  his  two  cows  and  his  chunky  horse.  So  the 
barn  was  big — and  the  priest's  purse  was  tiny,  and  money 
seldom  chinked  in  it. 

The  poorer  folks  of  Attegat  parish  understood  the 
secrets  of  the  big  barn.  What  the  prosperous  farmers 
tugged  with  good-will  in  through  the  broad  front  doors, 
Father  Leclair  slyed  out  the  little  back  door  to  the  needy 

105 


THE    RED    LANE 

or  the  sick.  For  thirty  years  his  big  barn  had  been  the 
clearing-house  where  thrift  and  good-fortune  discounted 
the  bitter  present  of  the  unfortunate  through  the  hands 
of  Father  Leclair. 

Thrift  understood,  and  did  not  complain.  After  thirty 
years  the  good  priest  who  has  welcomed  the  infants,  joined 
the  hands  of  lovers  and  stroked  the  wrinkled  lids  shut  over 
dead  eyes,  may  exact  a  bit  tyrannically  when  it  is  for  a 
good  cause.  The  prosperous  smiled  when  Father  Leclair 
exacted — and  loved  .his  ways. 

Norman  Aldrich,  riding  up  from  the  south,  knew  where 
he  would  find  the  priest  that  bright  morning.  He 
knotted  the  bridle  reins  about  the  tethering-rail  in  front 
of  the  stone  house,  nodded  greeting  to  the  ancient  house 
keeper,  whose  gnarled  face  peered  between  the  potted 
geraniums  in  the  kitchen  window,  and  walked  around  to 
the  garden. 

The  old  hound  gave  one  "woof"  of  warning;  a  second 
yelp  was  meant  for  greeting  to  a  friend. 

Father  Leclair  peered  under  the  broad  brim  of  his  flat 
hat,  waved  his  hand,  and  trod  gingerly  in  from  the  garden 
plot  to  the  turf. 

"No,  my  son,  you  are  not  taking  me  from  my  task," 
he  declared,  smiling,  checking  the  young  man's  apologies. 
"The  task  is  finished,  and  the  sun  is  warm  out  here." 
He  put  his  arm  through  Norman's  and  led  him  toward  the 
house.  "We  will  sit  down  and  drink  some  of  Mother 
Bissette's  cool  buttermilk." 

Father  Leclair  brought  the  stone  mugs  of  buttermilk 
into  the  study,  where  Aldrich  waited  for  him.  A  well- 
worn  cassock  and  a  shabby  calotte  had  replaced  the 
garden  garb. 

"Your  health,  bold  scout  for  Uncle  Sam,"  cried  the 
priest  with  jovial  cheer,  raising  his  mug.  He  reached 

1 06 


forward  suddenly  and  touched  the  bandaged  arm.  "A 
hurt,  my  son?"  he  asked,  with  solicitude  in  his  tones. 

"A  smuggler's  bullet,"  explained  Aldrich,  his  lips 
tightening  grimly. 

"I  did  not  think  they  would  dare  to  use  bullets  on  this 
border.  There  have  been  bad  deeds,  but  bullets — no, 
I  did  not  think  they  would  ever  dare." 

"Fists  and  clubs  have  been  about  their  limit,  but  this 
affair  was  a  bit  unusual.  Such  a  thing  may  not  happen 
again.  A  drunken  man  hired  by  a  smuggler— that  was  it ! 
The  smuggler  had  three  thousand  sheep  at  stake.  I 
was  alone." 

"Who  was  that  smuggler?"  asked  the  priest,  sternly. 

"The  worst  of  them  all — Dave  Roi." 

"And  you  did  not  catch  him,  then?" 

"He  was  careful  to  stay  on  his  own  side  of  the  line — as 
usual  when  there  is  danger.  Oh,  I  do  not  complain  of  my 
wound,  Father  Leclair.  It  is  a  lucky  hurt — a  shot 
through  the  flesh  is  lucky,  but  I  think  that  is  only  a  part 
of  the  good-fortune :  we  officers  have  been  obliged  to  turn 
the  other  cheek  too  long  on  this  border.  We  have  had 
to  be  mild  and  peaceful  tabbies.  Perhaps  now  our 
superiors  down  in  the  city  at  the  desks  will  understand 
better  what  we  are  face  to  face  with  up  here.  We  can't 
stop  smuggling  until  we  are  allowed  to  fight  the  smugglers 
according  to  their  own  code.  After  my  report  of  this 
affair,  orders  were  wired  me  to  carry  a  rifle." 

The  priest  had  listened,  uttering  little  clucks  of  alarm. 

"I  do  not  like  the  sound  of  all  this,  my  son.  Matters 
will  grow  much  worse." 

"Ah,  I  fear  what  I  said  sounded  bloodthirsty,  good 
father.  I  did  not  mean  it  that  way.  I  do  not  want  to 
shoot  men.  What  I  hope  is  that  when  it  is  known  far 
and  wide  that  the  officers  bear  arms  for  their  protection, 

107 


THE    RED    LANE 

and  to  make  the  laws  respected,  the  smugglers  will  think 
twice  before  they  start  trouble." 

"  It  may  happen  for  the  best  that  way."  But  the  priest 
continued  to  shake  his  head  doubtfully. 

He  was  too  much  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts  to 
note  the  growing  embarrassment  of  his  guest.  The  young 
man  tried  once  or  twice  to  start  a  subject  and  paused  in 
some  confusion. 

"I'm  sure  you  do  not  think  that  Dave  Roi  would  make 
a  girl  a  good  husband,  Father  Leclair,"  he  blurted  at 
last. 

"Not  I!"  declared  the  priest  with  vigor.  "He  has 
cursed  too  many  poor  girls  already  with  what  he  calls  his 
love." 

"You  will  not  think  it  strange,  then,  I  hope,  if  I  tell 
you  I  have  come  here  as  avant  courier  for  a  girl  who  is  in 
danger.  Her  father  has  promised  her  to  that  man — a 
betrothal  according  to  the  Acadian  custom,  and  she  has 
been  obliged  to  leave  home." 

"Her  name!"  demanded  the  priest  with  prompt  in 
terest. 

"Evangeline  Beaulieu."  He  faltered  the  name — he 
caressed  it  with  his  tones.  The  color  heightened  in  his 
tanned  cheeks.  "She  has  been  in  the  convent  of  St. 
Basil." 

"Ah,  I  know  her — I  know  her!  She  has  been  the  ward 
of  the  convent  school  since  she  was  a  tot  of  a  child.  A  rare 
maid  is  she!  I  have  seen  her  there  many  times!" 

"She  is  coming  to  you  for  advice  and  help,  father.  I 
saw  her  on  her  way.  I  offered  to  speak  of  her  to  you  so 
that  you  might  take  counsel  with  yourself  before  she  comes. 
She  hopes  that  you  may  recommend  her  as  a  teacher  at 
the  new  training-school."  He  went  on  hurriedly,  explain 
ing  more  fully  the  plight  of  the  homeless  girl. 

108 


GOOD    FATHER    LECLAIR 

"Certainly  I  shall  help,"  declared  Father  Leclair,  with 
enthusiasm.  "  I  have  watched  the  girl  through  the  years. 
She  will  make  a  fine  teacher  in  the  new  school.  I  have  v 
some  influence — ah,  yes,  though  I  must  whisper  it  for  fear 
the  bishop  may  hear  and  blame  me,  I  have  some  influence 
with  those  at  the  head  of  the  new  Yankee  school.  I  shall 
not  wait."  He  tossed  away  his  old  skull-cap  and  took 
down  his  broad  hat  from  its  hook.  "  I  will  go  now  to  the 
school  principal  so  that  I  may  have  some  good  news  to 
add  to  my  words  of  consolation,  when  she  comes.  Sym 
pathy  is  sweet,  but  good  news  satisfies  the  hungry  heart 
more  completely,  my  son,"  he  added,  with  a  shrewd  wink. 

Celerity  in  doing  good  was  one  of  Father  Leclair's 
leading  characteristics. 

He  trotted  away  down  the  dusty  road,  his  cassock 
bobbing  against  his  hurrying  heels.  Aldrich  looked  after 
him  with  a  smile  and  was  far  from  resenting  this  brusque- 
ness  of  departure.  He  mounted  his  horse  with  lighter 
heart.  He  knew  the  good  priest  had  not  required  this 
intercession  in  her  behalf;  but  the  thought  that  he  had 
done  her  the  small  service  of  preparing  for  her  reception 
comforted  him.  His  soul  longed  for  opportunities  to 
serve  her,  and  there  was  so  little  he  could  do. 

She  could  not  be  far  from  Attegat  now,  he  reflected. 

It  was  the  second  day  since  he  had  seen  her  at  the 
wedding. 

On  the  chance  of  meeting  her  where  he  could  drop  a 
comforting  word  concerning  the  prospects  awaiting  her 
at  Attegat,  he  rode  south.  He  realized  that  he  must  not 
compromise  Mademoiselle  Beaulieu,  teacher  of  youth  at 
the  training-school,  with  lover-like  attentions.  He  would 
need  to  negative  by  discreet  actions  the  angry  charges  of 
Vetal  Beaulieu. 

Just  now,  however,  she  was  Evangeline,  his  sweetheart, 

109 


THE    RED   LANE 

a  homeless  girl,  who  needed  consolation.  So  he  spurred 
his  horse,  and  he  cantered  south  at  a  gait  which  stirred 
rumors  of  desperate  trouble  somewhere  along  the  border. 

Good  Father  Leclair  hurried  on,  his  eyes  on  the  great 
structure  which  dominated  the  village  of  Attegat. 

Past  the  huddled  houses,  the  stores,  the  tavern,  he 
trotted  at  his  best  gait,  bobbing  greeting  to  those  who 
respectfully  saluted  him.  The  frank  sunshine  showed  up 
the  frayed  seams  of  his  robe,  but  the  folks  of  the  parish 
had  discovered  long  before  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  give 
Father  Leclair  a  purse  to  be  used  for  new  raiment.  After 
such  presentations  it  would  be  noticed  that  children  in 
interesting  numbers  appeared  at  church  with  new  boots 
or  new  caps.  The  old  cassock  would  continue  to  flutter 
along  the  streets  of  Attegat. 

He  was  through  the  village,  nearly  to  the  school  on 
the  hill,  and  no  one  had  succeeded  in  detaining  him.  A 
woman  came  running  from  her  door,  and  cried  shrilly  to 
him. 

"Will  you  not  stop,  Pere  Leclair?  I  have  something 
for  your  ears." 

"Not  now!    I  am  in  a  great  hurry." 

"I  beg  you  to  stop." 

He  did  not  halt.     He  hastened  the  faster. 

"There  will  be  time,"  he  told  her  over  his  shoulder, 
begrudging  the  breath,  for  the  hill  was  ahead  of  him. 

In  such  spirited  fashion  was  the  business  of  homeless 
Evangeline  Beaulieu  prosecuted  for  her!  Such  zeal  re 
quires  its  reward.  A  half -hour  later  Father  Leclair  came 
down  the  hill,  slowly,  calm  and  content  in  his  heart.  A 
new  teacher  had  been  engaged  for  the  summer  term  of  the 
big  school  on  his  recommendation. 

The  woman  came  from  her  door  again. 

"This  time  I  will  come  in,  for  I  have  business  with 
no 


GOOD    FATHER    LECLAIR 

you,  Madame  Ouillette,"  he  said,  before  she  could  speak 
again  of  her  own  business.  "The  big  school  has  just 
hired  a  very  fine  young  maid  from  St.  Basil,  as  a  new  teach 
er,  and  she  will  be  pleased  to  engage  a  room  in  your  house 
and  buy  her  food  from  you.  I  shall  bring  her  here,  eh?" 

He  was  indoors  as  he  finished  speaking. 

"That  is  good  news,"  she  said,  but  her  face  had  suddenly 
lost  its  smile  that  was  half  a  simper.  "A  poor  widow 
needs  the  few  pennies  she  can  earn.  It  is  good  news." 
She  rolled  toil-stained  hands  in  her  apron.  She  sighed. 
"It  must  be  because  of  this  he  has  been  smiling." 

Father  Leclair  understood.  As  real  pastor  of  his  flock, 
sharer  of  the  secrets  of  his  people,  he  understood.  He 
frowned  momentarily,  then  he  chuckled.  He  drew  his 
spectacles  from  their  case  and  hooked  them  across  his 
nose.  He  peered  up  at  a  huge  portrait  on  the  wall — a 
crude  thing  done  on  Bristol-board  with  crayons. 

"Yes,  he  smiles  to-day,"  agreed  Father  Leclair. 

"Something  else  had  happened.  It  was  not  about  the 
new  teacher !  He  has  been  smiling  for  some  days.  I  was 
to  ask  you  about  it,  father.  But  I  suppose  the  good  news 
you  have  brought  is  why  he  has  been  smiling." 

Her  disappointment  was  evident. 

The  priest  examined  the  warped  picture  with  which 
moisture  and  sun  had  played  its  pranks  for  so  long. 

"This  time  it  was  a  fine  smile,"  she  went  on,  wistfully. 
"But  it  must  have  been  about  the  new  teacher." 

"Ah,  I  see  there  has  been  another  suitor,  Madame 
Ouillette.  It  was  on  that  affair  you  called  me,  eh?" 

"It  is  Napoleon  Lajeunesse,  the  brave  riverman.  He 
thinks  he  will  leave  the  river  and  settle  in  Attegat.  He  has 
spoken  to  me." 

Father  Leclair  gazed  up  again,  judicially,  at  the  fea 
tures  of  the  departed  Monsieur  Ouillette.  He  always 

in 


THE    RED    LANE 

humored  the  vagaries  of  his  poor  people,  did  Father 
Leclair.  He  did  not  scoff  at  the  little  superstitions.  In 
the  case  of  the  simple-hearted  folks,  the  honest  and  the 
great  faith  is  often  built  on  the  foundation  of  the  little 
superstitions.  For  ten  years  he  had  humored  Madame 
Ouillette  in  her  belief  as  to  the  "haunted  portrait."  He 
had  been  called  to  translate  for  her  its  demoniacal  scowls, 
its  placid  resignation,  its  grotesque  grins.  With  a  few 
brusque  words  he  could  have  destroyed  her  comforting 
belief  that  the  spirit  of  the  departed  Ouillette  was  with  her 
to  counsel  and  to  understand  for  her  with  spiritual  in 
sight — twisting  his  pictured  face  to  make  her  know.  But 
Father  Leclair,  indulgent  and  tactful  with  the  children  of 
his  flock,  did  not  go  about  tearing  their  little  consolations 
away  from  his  people. 

And,  in  the  past,  he  found  that  the  picture  had  helped 
him  in  winning  the  lonely  widow — too  credulous,  too  soft 
hearted — away  from  suitors  whom  he,  in  his  wider  knowl 
edge  of  men,  did  not  approve. 

"I  think  good  friend  Xavier  smiles  because  he  knows 
that  the  girl  who  is  coming  will  be  sunshine  in  your  lonely 
house,  Madame  Ouillette.  For  is  it  not  settled  that  I 
shall  bring  her?  As  to  Lajeunesse,  we  shall  see.  We 
shall  watch  the  picture.  But  I  think  it  will  soon  begin 
to  frown."  The  priest  had  had  ten  years'  experience  with 
the  probabilities  in  the  matter  of  the  warped  cardboard. 
"It  will  frown  when  the  matter  of  Lajeunesse  comes  more 
to  the  fore,  if  he  persists  in  courting  you.  For  Lajeunesse 
is  a  very  lazy  man,  and  he  loafed  while  his  first  wife  toiled. 
Yes,  it  is  as  you  say;  he  is  a  brave  man.  But  a  brave  man 
who  sits  in  the  kitchen  becomes  very  much  of  a  nuisance. 
You  will  not  be  so  lonely  when  the  girl  is  here.  And  she 
will  be  a  boarder  who  will  pay — not  a  boarder  who  will 
boss  and  refuse  to  pay,  as  a  lazy  husband  might." 

112 


GOOD    FATHER   LECLAIR 

"I  am  the  fortunate  woman,"  she  declared.  Her  face 
had  cleared.  "I  have  the  spirit  of  my  good  husband  to 
watch  over  me,  and  the  good  Father  Leclair  speaks  the 
words  as  my  Xavier  would  speak  them.  So  I  shall  never 
worry.  And  I  will  have  my  best  room  ready  for  the  new 
teacher  when  you  bring  her." 

"The  good  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb," 
said  Father  Leclair  to  himself,  as  he  trotted  down  toward 
the  village.  "I  hope  I  am  forgiven  for  diluting  the  truth 
to  the  understanding  of  the  poor  lambs  who  are  thereby 
saved  from  the  pitfalls  and  the  shears." 

On  his  way  to  the  school  he  had  passed  through  a  vil 
lage  which  was  placid  under  the  warm  sun.  Men  had 
lounged  in  the  shade,  and  the  horses  of  those  who  had  come 
to  market  dozed  at  the  hitching-posts. 

He  came  back  into  a  village  which  was  upheaved  by 
emotion,  noisy  with  excitement. 

Here  and  there,  in  the  middle  of  the  dusty  road,  groups 
of  men  clamored  comment  and  argument,  beating  their 
fists  into  their  palms.  Women  stood  at  their  doors,  their 
shrill  voices  carrying  far. 

"It  was  the  word  which  came  yesterday,  Father 
Leclair,"  shouted  a  man  who  thrust  himself  out  of  a  chat 
tering  group  at  sight  of  the  priest.  "  But  no  one  believed. 
We  thought  it  was  only  some  of  the  threats.  But  it  has 
been  done — it  has  been  done!" 

An  elderly  man,  thin,  with  stooped  shoulders  under  a 
shiny  frock-coat,  came  to  the  priest.  He  was  Notary 
Pierre  Gendreau,  the  old  and  cherished  friend  of  Father 
Leclair,  willing  to  sit  long  hours  over  a  chess-board,  smok 
ing  his  pipe  and  proving  by  comforting  silence  the  best 
attributes  of  friendship. 

,,    "They  have  begun  to  put  the  people  off  the  lands,"  he 
explained.     "The  first  eviction  was  at  Rancourt's  clear- 


THE    RED    LANE 

ing  yesterday.  I  have  known  it  must  come.  It  is  the 
law." 

"Oh,  but  it's  not  justice,  good  notary,"  cried  the  priest, 
his  face  working  with  emotion.  "You  and  I  understand 
— and  it's  not  justice." 

"  I  had  been  hoping  it  might  be  postponed.  Something 
could  have  been  done  if  the  wise  men  had  been  reached 
in  time.  There  has  been  too  much  delay.  But  I  believe 
that  there  are  good  men  and  powerful  men  in  this  State 
who  do  not  want  to  have  these  honest  citizens  driven  out. 
A  State  needs  such  citizens.  I  hoped  the  poor  folks  would 
be  let  alone  until  some  words  could  be  spoken  to  the  next 
legislative  assembly." 

"There  has  been  too  much  hope  and  too  little  action," 
complained  the  priest.  "The  Acadians  season  even  their 
dry  potatoes  with  hope.  Hope  is  a  comfort,  notary;  I 
don't  know  how  our  poor  people  would  get  along  without  it. 
But  hope  is  a  crumbly  rock  as  a  foundation  for  business. 
Perhaps  I  must  bear  my  share  of  responsibility  for  this 
misfortune.  But  a  parish  priest  could  only  make  poor 
shift  in  politics  or  the  law." 

"I  hoped  that  in  the  end  they  would  allow  the  settlers 
to  buy,"  confessed  the  old  notary.  "A  few  on  the  older 
tracts  of  cleared  land  have  been  allowed  to  buy.  I  have 
been  making  the  deeds.  I  did  not  think  the  threats  would 
be  carried  out." 

While  they  talked  men  had  been  crowding  about  them, 
mouths  open,  necks  craned. 

They  got  no  consolation  from  the  words  or  the  faces  of 
the  priest  and  the  notary. 

There  were  men  from  outside  the  village,  men  whose 
homes  were  on  land  to  which  they  held  no  title. 

"I  am  a  poor  man.  I  do  not  know  books  or  writing, 
Father  Leclair,"  cried  one,  brokenly.  "You  know;  you 

114 


GOOD    FATHER    LECLAIR 

have  read  all  the  wise  things.  What  shall  I  do  to  save  my 
home  when  they  come  to  turn  my  wife  and  children  out-of- 
doors?" 

"I  do  not  know,  Jean  Bourdreau,"  returned  the  priest, 
sorrowfully.  "The  notary  says  it  is  the  law — the  owners 
of  the  land  have  the  law  with  them.  My  books  counsel 
submission  to  the  law." 

"The  rich  men  make  the  law,"  shouted  another  of  the 
group.  "  I  have  never  been  where  they  make  the  law.  I 
am  too  poor  to  go  there.  All  these  men  are  too  poor  to 
go  there.  The  law  is  made  for  us,  and  we  cannot  tell  our 
side  to  any  one  until  the  law  is  made.  And  then  men  come 
up  here  with  papers  and  turn  us  out  of  our  homes  and  say 
the  law  allows  it — commands  it." 

"  I  think  it  is  time  to  find  out  about  that  law  and  how 
it  is  made!"  shouted  the  first  speaker. 

"You  are  right,  Bourdreau!"  called  some  one  in  clar 
ion  tones.  That  shout  rang  from  end  to  end  of  the 
street.  It  came  from  above  their  heads.  All  looked 
up. 

Framed  in  an  open  window  over  the  village  post-office 
was  a  young  man.  A  new  gilt  sign  beside  his  window 
advertised  "Louis  Blais.  Attorney-at-law." 

"Listen  to  me,  you  who  are  Frenchmen  and  love  your 
homes.  It  is  time  to  know  about  the  laws  they  are  making 
down  in  the  capitol  halls.  You  are  letting  the  Yankees 
make  those  laws  to  suit  themselves.  For  ten  years  you 
have  been  voting  to  send  to  the  assembly-legislative  a 
Yankee  from  this  district— a  man  who  has  been  in,  hand 
and  glove,  with  the  rest  of  his  race — and  now  look  at  what 
has  happened  in  this  section !  Good  Acadian  farmers  are 
being  put  off  their  lands.  Where  is  the  law  to  protect  the 
Acadians?  It's  all  for  the  Yankees.  The  man  who  has 
been  sent  from  here,  because  you  have  been  fooled  and  lied 


THE    RED   LANE 

to,  is  ready  to  sell  out  to  the  rich  men — he  has  sold  out  to 
the  rich  men!" 

"False  slander!    Hush,  Louis  Blais!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  priest.  He  came  apart  from  the 
men  in  the  roadway,  and  turned  face  of  righteous  indigna 
tion  up  at  the  open  window. 

"You  are  talking  about  my  friend — the  friend  of  all 
these  people.  You  are  attacking  a  good  man.  You  are 
slandering  our  honest  Representative  Clifford." 

The  young  man  in  the  window  hesitated  for  a  moment. 
It  was  temerity — offering  retort  to  the  good  priest  of 
Attegat.  But  anxious  men  were  staring  up  at  him  in 
quiringly.  He  realized  that  he  was  plucking  at  ripe 
occasion.  There  might  never  be  such  an  opportunity 
for  launching  his  ambitious  plans,  he  told  himself,  while 
he  stared  down  at  Father  Leclair's  rebuking  face. 

"You  have  just  told  Jean  Bourdreau  that  you  have  no 
counsel  to  give — no  plan  to  suggest  to  save  these  threat 
ened  homes,  good  Father  Leclair.  I  have  a  plan.  I 
desire  to  tell  it  to  these  people." 

"We  are  ready  to  listen,"  called  many. 

"You  have  been  sending  the  wrong  man  to  the  as 
sembly,  my  good  friends." 

"Again  I  command  you  to  stop,"  cried  the  priest. 
"You  shall  have  full  time  to  state  your  plans,  but  you  shall 
not  climb  to  the  favor  of  these  hearers  by  leaping  upon  the 
shoulders  of  one  of  my  good  friends.  You  say  these  people 
have  been  lied  to  and  fooled,  Louis  Blais  ?  This  concerns 
me.  For  I  have  advised  them  to  vote  for  Representative 
Clifford." 

"Why  has  he  not  brought  home  some  good  law  to  pro 
tect  the  homes  that  are  now  taken  away?" 

"Your  talk  is  the  talk  of  the  reckless  demagogue,"  cried 
the  priest.  "  It  is  the  curse  of  politics  that  good  men  who 

116 


GOOD    FATHER    LECLAIR 

cannot  achieve  impossibilities  have  men  barking  at  their 
heels,  trying  to  discredit  honest  effort.  I  will  not  allow 
you  to  pull  wool  over  the  eyes  of  these  men,  sir." 

"The  wool  is  there  already — I'm  trying  to  pull  it  away," 
insisted  Blais,  insolently. 

The  priest  realized  that  a  friend's  cause  was  imperiled. 

"Representative  Clifford  has  worked  hard  for  our  peo 
ple,"  declared  Father  Leclair,  with  loyal  fervor.  "He 
has  brought  home  money  for  our  roads — more  money  than 
has  been  given  to  other  places,  for  he  has  explained  that 
our  folks  are  poor.  The  State  has  paid  for  all  the  bridges 
in  the  district.  The  State  has  built  that  fine  new  school 
up  there  where  all  the  boys  and  girls  of  the  river-valley 
may  come  and  be  taught  free  of  charge." 

"That  school  has  been  built  so  that  the  Yankees  can 
teach  your  boys  and  girls  to  forget  their  language,  their 
traditions,  even  their  religion— it's  a  training-school  to 
turn  children  into  Yankees  who  can  be  used  by  the  rich 
men,"  shouted  Blais. 

"That  man  lies,"  stated  Father  Leclair.  He  turned  to 
his  people.  "Beware — beware — this  is  a  time  when  a 
mistake  that  may  ruin  all  of  us  can  so  easily  be  made. 
There  is  a  dangerous  man  up  in  that  window.  He  is 
shouting  the  word  'Yankee'  at  you  to  make  trouble  so 
that  he  may  profit  by  the  trouble.  He  wants  you  to 
believe  that  all  Yankees  are  in  league  with  those  men  who 
have  bought  the  timber-lands,  so  that  this  present  trouble 
and  new  anger  of  yours  may  make  you  rebels  to  the  laws 
of  the  country  in  which  you  live.  Listen  to  me,  my  people. 
Rebels  must  suffer  in  the  end.  That  man  wants  you  to 
be  angry — to  bluster — to  fight.  I  have  been  watching  him 
since  he  has  come  to  our  parish.  This  is  not  the  time  for 
hot  young  blood — for  rash  counsels.  It  is  a  time  for  care 
and  patient  thought  so  that  the  great  men  may  under- 
9  117 


THE    RED    LANE 

stand  and  pity  us.  We  do  not  want  them  to  fear  and  hate 
us." 

His  tones  shook  with  the  fervor  of  his  appeal.  He  who 
had  been  so  close  to  them  all  the  years  understood  the 
present  peril  in  all  its  possibilities. 

"All  you  have  heard  year  after  year  is  'Peace,  peace' 
and  'Turn  the  other  cheek,'"  blustered  the  opportunist 
in  the  upper  window.  "It  is  time  to  stand  together,  my 
countrymen!  Let's  be  Frenchmen  together !  I  will  speak 
straight  out.  Send  me  to  your  assembly  instead  of  the 
Yankee  who  is  trading  away  your  rights.  I  will  go  down 
there  to  the  capitol  halls  and  put  my  fists  under  their 
noses  and  make  them  give  you  your  rights." 

The  men  cheered  him.  In  their  despair  and  new  misery 
this  arrogance,  this  bombastic  assumption  of  power, 
caught  their  Gallic  fancy,  spurred  their  hopes. 

"You  silly  boy,  you  are  only  provoking  good  men  to 
hurt  their  best  interest,"  stormed  the  priest.  Standing 
there  among  them  in  the  highway,  in  his  worn,  dusty 
cassock,  he  did  not  seem  the  leader  their  fancy  demanded. 
That  flushed,  swaggering  youth  in  the  window,  promising 
might  to  cope  with  might,  filled  their  eyes.  In  moments  of 
stress  of  emotion  the  demagogue  succeeds  best  with  his 
arrant  buncombe.  The  men  in  the  road  were  ready  to 
grasp  at  straws.  They  did  not  trouble  to  wonder  how  this 
young  man  proposed  to  conquer  when  he  went  single- 
handed  into  the  halls  of  law  to  force  privileges  for  his 
section. 

They  looked  up  at  him  hopefully  and  cheered  again, 
drowning  the  good  father's  appeals  to  their  reason. 

"The  wolves  think  they  have  got  us  on  the  run,"  bel 
lowed  Blais.  "It's  their  game  to  divide  us  and  eat  us 
piecemeal.  That  big  school,  weaning  our  children  from 
Acadian  language  and  customs,  is  one  scheme  of  theirs 

118 


GOOD    FATHER    LECLAIR 

to  divide  us.  A  Yankee  as  our  representative  is  another 
plan.  But  we  will  let  them  know  that  we  are  awake  at 
last.  Acadians,  stand  with  me  and  stand  together!" 

He  reached  to  one  side  and  dramatically  produced  a 
flag  wrapped  about  a  short  staff.  He  shook  out  the  flag. 
It  was  a  French  tricolor. 

"We  shall  rally  under  this,  my  people!  Our  cry  shall 
be,  'For  ourselves — for  ourselves,  at  last!'" 

The  men  in  the  road  leaped  and  screamed.  Their 
mercurial  natures  were  stirred  to  the  depths.  Here  at 
last  was  true  expression,  in  the  words  and  act  of  Blais, 
of  their  resentment — their  bitter,  sullen  rage,  their  hatred 
toward  those  whom  they  now  considered  their  oppressors. 

The  young  lawyer  was  nailing  the  short  staff  to  the  sill 
of  his  window. 

"This  flag  shall  stay  here,  my  people,  as  our  rallying 
banner.  It  shall  remind  you  that  I  am  working  for  your 
interests.  Remember  me  when  it  comes  time  to  cast  your 
votes." 

Notary  Pierre  fingered  his  thin  nose  and  squinted  up 
at  the  flag. 

"That  may  be  bad  in  the  eyes  of  the  law.  A  French 
flag  over  the  door  of  a  post-office  of  the  United  States. 
I  think  it  will  make  trouble,"  he  suggested  to  the  priest. 

"That  silly  boy  is  thinking  only  how  to  push  himself 
higher  in  the  world.  He  does  not  care  how  much  trouble 
he  stirs,"  sputtered  Father  Leclair.  "He  will  make  fools 
of  these  people  for  his  own  ends.  No,  he  shall  not  do  so." 

He  trotted  across  the  road  and  climbed  the  outside 
stairs  which  led  to  the  attorney's  office.  He  hurried  across 
the  room  and  extended  a  quivering  finger,  when  Blais 
turned  to  face  him.  They  were  in  plain  sight  of  the  gap 
ing  men  below. 

"Take  down  that  insulting  flag,  Louis  Blais." 
119 


THE    RED    LANE 

"I  shall  decorate  my  office  as  I  see  fit,  Father  Leclair." 

"That  is  not  a  decoration.  There  is  the  spirit  of  re 
bellion  behind  it — it  stirs  men  to  foolish  rage  against  a 
good  government  under  which  they  live.  No  good  comes 
out  of  rage.  No  good  comes  out  of  fighting.  Take  down 
that  flag.  I  command  you." 

k»  "There  is  a  time  to  fight.  It  is  when  men  cannot  get 
their  rights  in  any  other  way.  Our  fathers  fought." 

"You  shall  not  provoke  these  few  poor  people  to  ruin 
all — to  spoil  all  their  cause  by  senseless  riot  against  au 
thority — if  that  is  what  you  propose.  Take  down  that 
flag!" 

"No." 

The  priest  was  little,  was  old.  But  the  holy  zeal  which 
animated  him  was  more  potent  than  mere  muscle.  He 
brushed  past  Blais,  broke  the  staff,  and  flung  the  flag  down 
into  the  road. 

"Not  one  word  to  me,  sir,"  he  cried.  He  faced  the 
young  man,  his  hand  upraised.  "I  know  you.  I  know 
your  designs.  You  are  not  the  true  friend  of  these  people. 
You  are  thinking  only  of  yourself.  It  matters  not  what 
they  suffer  from  fury  and  folly  so  long  as  you  win  for 
yourself." 

He  leaned  out  of  the  window. 

"Go  to  your  homes,  my  people.  I  tell  you  as  your 
priest  that  I  will  put  my  hands  to  your  affairs.  I  have 
prayed.  Now  I  will  work.  There  is  a  way.  I  will  find 
it." 

i  "Ask  the  good  father  if  he  will  make  the  rich  Yankees 
give  back  those  homes  to  the  people  who  have  been  turned 
out-of-doors,"  suggested  Blais,  calling  to  the  men  below. 

Their  eyes,  upturned  to  his,  asked  the  question  mutely, 
but  the  priest  had  no  answer  for  them.  He  understood 
their  natures  too  well  to  attempt  evasion. 

120 


GOOD    FATHER    LECLAIR 

With  the  simple  directness  of  children  they  expected 
candor;  they  wanted  performance,  not  promise. 

Father  Leclair  realized  what  damage  the  demagogue  had 
already  done.  His  flock  did  not  display  the  trustfulness, 
the  willing  obedience  with  which  they  had  always  re 
sponded  when  he  called  on  them  for  service.  They  mut 
tered  and  scowled. 

"Take  care,  my  children — take  care!"  he  warned  them, 
sadly.  "Do  not  raise  up  a  leader  who  counsels  you  to 
do  bad  things." 

"I  do  not  like  such  talk  to  be  made  about  me,  Father 
Leclair,"  said  Blais.  The  priest  was  on  his  way  to  the 
door.  For  the  first  time  he  noticed  another  man  in  the 
office.  It  was  David  Roi,  who  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  table, 
clasping  his  upcocked  knees  with  his  hands.  He  grinned 
when  Father  Leclair  flashed  indignant  eyes  his  way. 

"So  you  dare  to  come  this  side  of  the  boundary,  David 
Roi?" 

"A  man  must  come  to  his  lawyer,  when  there  is  business 
to  be  done." 

"Then  you  understand  there  is  such  a  thing  as  law,  do 
you?  From  what  I  have  heard  about  you  of  late,  I 
thought  you  had  forgotten." 

"You  mustn't  believe  all  you  hear,  father,"  said  Roi, 
patronizingly.  "They  all  lie  about  me  along  the  border." 

"Listen  to  me  a  moment,  Father  Leclair,"  broke  in  the 
lawyer.  "I  am  a  candidate  for  public  office.  I  have  a 
right  to  be  a  candidate." 

"You  have  not  yet  become  the  proper  sort  of  a  man  to 
lead  the  people,"  insisted  the  priest.  "I  tell  you  so  to 
your  face.  It  is  my  duty  to  guard  my  people  from  all 
who  try  to  deceive  them." 

"A  priest  has  no  right  to  meddle  in  politics.  I  warn 
you,  father,  that  you  will  find  trouble  if  you  get  in  my  way. 

121 


THE    RED    LANE 

You  are  a  good  man.  I  hate  to  threaten  you.  But  I  have 
to  protect  myself.  You  talk  to  my  face,  eh?  Then  I'll 
talk  to  yours.  If  you  meddle  and  try  to  hurt  me  I  shall 
report  you  to  the  bishop." 

"I  shall  continue  to  do  what  I  think  is  my  duty  as  a 
pastor  of  folks  who  are  easily  misled,"  returned  the 
father.  "You  are  urging  them  to  resist  the  law,  to  be 
violent,  to  turn  out  a  good  man,  who  has  done  much  for 
his  district.  You  ask  them  to  elect  you,  who  are  untried, 
inexperienced,  and  rash.  So  I  shall  go  on.  I  am  not 
easily  terrified  when  I  am  right." 

The  little  priest  trudged  out  of  the  room  and  down  the 
stairs. 

"That's  a  gun  you'd  better  spike  if  you  expect  to  beat 
old  Clifford  out  for  the  legislature,"  suggested  Roi. 
"You  and  I  don't  seem  to  stand  very  high  in  our  church 
circles,  Louis,"  he  added,  flippantly. 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  down  on  the  men. 
The  priest  was  going  among  them,  appealing  to  this  one 
and  that. 

"I'm  not  going  to  allow  even  Father  Leclair  to  put  me 
out  of  the  running,"  declared  the  candidate.  "It's  my 
chance — this  is,  Roi!  If  I  make  a  big  enough  row — if  I 
keep  'em  stirred  up  in  good  shape — I  can  dump  old  Clifford 
out  of  that  chair  he's  been  nailed  into  all  these  years." 

' '  Rub  their  ears !  Rub  'em  hard, ' '  advised  the  smuggler. 
"I'll  help.  There's  a  slice  in  it  for  me  if  trouble  breaks 
out  hot  enough  along  this  border.  I'll  go  into  this  thing 
with  you,  Blais,  if  you'll  remember  me  when  it  comes  time 
for  a  whack-up.  Later  I'll  let  you  know  what  I  want." 

"The  deal  is  on,"  agreed  the  lawyer. 

"Father  Leclair  is  getting  a  surprise  down  there," 
commented  Roi.  "His  sheep  are  showing  their  teeth." 

"When  I  get  done  herding  them  there'll  be  other  folks 
122 


GOOD    FATHER    LECLAIR 

who  will  be  surprised.  Now,  Dave,  back  to  that  business 
of  yours!" 

But  Roi  was  not  interested  in  his  legal  affairs  just  then. 
He  leaned  far  out  of  the  window,  propping  himself  by 
his  palms  on  the  sill,  and  snapped  out  an  oath  of  astonish 
ment. 

An  ancient  buckboard  had  creaked  to  a  standstill  just 
beyond  the  group  of  men.  Fiddler  Billedeau  stood  up 
and  called  to  the  priest,  hat  in  his  hand. 

Evangeline  Beaulieu  was  on  the  seat  of  the  buckboard. 

"  It's  Vetal  Beaulieu's  girl."  Roi  answered  the  question 
the  lawyer  had  put  to  him.  "She  ran  away  like  a  young 
fool.  I  got  word  that  Vetal  had  started  to  chase  her.  I 
supposed  she  was  safe  back  home  by  this  time.  So  he 
didn't  get  her!" 

"Gad!  A  beauty!"  commented  Blais.  "You're  in 
terested,  eh,  Roi?" 

"She  is  going  to  marry  me  as  soon  as  some  of  her 
foolish  notions  are  straightened  out,"  declared  the  smug 
gler,  spurred  to  this  boast  by  the  lawyer's  open  admiration 
of  the  girl.  "Now  it's  up  to  me  to  find  out  what  this  per 
formance  means." 

He  hurried  down  the  stairs  and  went  to  the  buckboard. 
Father  Leclair  was  there  before  him. 

"Did  you  know  your  father  has  been  hunting  for  you, 
Evangeline?"  Roi  asked,  breaking  on  the  priest's  little 
speech  of  greeting. 

"I  have  seen  him." 

She  had  shown  apprehension  when  she  first  saw  him. 
But  his  insolent  tone  brought  the  scarlet  of  indignation 
into  her  cheeks. 

"Then  why  aren't  you  at  home?" 

"You  know  why  she  is  not  at  home,"  declared  the  priest. 
He  spoke  low  so  that  the  bystanders  might  not  hear. 

123 


THE    RED    LANE 

"And  I  know  why  she  is  not  at  home.     I  know  all  the 
story." 

"There  has  been  enough  of  this  silly  business  of  running 
about,"  Roi  told  her.  "I  shall  take  you  back  to  your 
father,  where  you  belong." 

The  priest  put  his  hands  out  to  her  and  smiled.  She 
stood  up  and  stepped  down  from  the  buckboard,  his  hands 
steadying  her. 

"Father  Leclair,  it  may  be  all  right  for  you  to  meddle 
with  Louis  Blais's  politics,"  growled  Roi,  bending  low  to 
speak  into  the  priest's  ear.  "But  stepping  between  a 
father  and  his  daughter  or  between  me  and  my  promised 
wife  is  dangerous  business  even  for  a  priest." 

The  girl  was  about  to  speak,  but  Father  Leclair  checked 
her  with  a  glance. 

"  I  have  told  you  that  I  know  it  all,  my  son,"  he  said  to 
Roi.  ' '  I  know  what  sort  of  a  husband  you  would  make  for 
this  girl,  and  I  know  some  other  things  which  will  not  be 
pleasant  for  you  to  listen  to.  You  march  on  about  your 
business." 

"Evangeline  must  come  home  with  me,"  insisted  Roi. 
Fury  was  in  countenance  and  tone. 

"Maids  are  not  easily  abducted  in  broad  daylight  in 
Attegat  parish,"  observed  the  priest,  quietly.  "You 
may  ride  back  to  Beaulieu's  house  and  tell  him  that  his 
daughter  is  in  safe  hands,  and  that  Father  Leclair  will 
guard  her  until  her  home  is  a  fit  place  for  her." 

He  led  her  away  up  the  road  toward  Madame  Ouillette's 
house,  and  Roi  glared  after  them  until  they  had  turned  the 
corner. 

The  little  scene  had  attracted  scant  attention  from  the 
men  in  the  highway.  They  had  gathered  about  Billedeau. 
He  had  led  them  away  from  the  buckboard  and  was  tell 
ing  them  of  the  happenings  in  the  Rancourt  clearing. 

124 


GOOD    FATHER    LECLAIR 

Roi  tramped  back  up  the  stairs  to  the  lawyer's  office. 

"Look  here,  Louis,  that  partnership  of  ours  is  going  to 
be  a  closer  deal  than  I  reckoned  on.  Get  busy  now  and 
furnish  the  brains  for  your  end — for  I've  got  hell  a  plenty 
to  invest  at  my  end." 


THE   PACT   OF   THE   ORCHARD 

FTEN  at  twilight,  when  the  summer  even 
ings  were  long,  a  patriarch  trudged  down 
across  the  fields  to  Father  Leclair's  stone 
house. 

This  man  was  tall,  and  a  white  beard 
swept  his  breast,  and  he  sat  under  a  tree 
of  the  orchard  with  the  good  priest  and  smoked  his  pipe 
and  gazed  away  into  the  purple  shadows  which  deepened 
among  the  river  hills. 

This  patriarch  was  Ambrose  Clifford,  representative  of 
the  broad  district  of  Attegat  in  the  State  legislature.  In 
all  the  years  he  had  served  his  people  he  had  displayed 
more  of  the  spirit  of  the  missionary  than  of  the  politician. 
He  went  up  to  the  legislative  halls  to  coax  for  benefits, 
because  he  understood  the  district's  needs.  He  did  not 
allow  the  State  to  forget  those  half-alien  folks  to  whom 
all  the  rest  of  the  country  in  which  they  dwelt  was  "out 
side."  When  impatient  politicians,  from  whose  hands 
the  public  funds  were  doled,  sneered  about  "Clifford's 
Canucks,"  the  mild  old  man  did  not  lose  his  patience. 

"We  are  making  American  citizens  up  there,  gentle 
men.  They  are  honest;  they  toil  hard;  they  are  willing; 
but  they  are  poor.  They  do  not  ask  for  charity.  They 
are  proud  because  they  can  feed  their  own  mouths  and 
cover  their  own  backs.  The  Acadian  is  not  a  loafer  or  a 
beggar.  They  are  sturdy  men  who  have  gone  ahead  and 

126 


THE    PACT   OF   THE    ORCHARD 

smoothed  things  with  ax  and  crowbar.  They  have 
toiled  for  their  children's  sake.  They  need  schools  now. 
They  need  more  roads.  If  we  do  not  help  them  we  are 
not  awake  to  the  best  interests  of  our  State." 

Representative  Clifford  came  to  the  tree  in  the  or 
chard,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  melancholy  on  his 
face. 

"I  have  been  out  among  my  good  men,  Father  Leclair. 
Day  after  day  I  have  traveled  here  and  there  in  this  dis 
trict.  They  do  not  look  up  at  me  in  the  old  frank  way. 
They  sulk.  They  mutter  words  I  cannot  catch.  But  I 
understand.  It's  that  blatherskite  of  a  Blais.  I  have 
said  to  all  that  we  are  making  American  citizens  of  our 
Acadians.  I  believed  that  they  appreciated  what  I  have 
been  doing  for  them.  And  yet  here  comes  one  who  ap 
peals  to  race  prejudice — tells  them  nonsense,  after  shout 
ing  that  he  is  a  Frenchman,  and  they  forget  everything 
and  follow  him.  It  is  hard  for  an  old  man  who  has  tried 
so  honestly  to  help  them." 

Father  Leclair  hugged  his  broad  hat  against  his  cas 
sock  under  his  interlaced  fingers.  Representative  Clif 
ford  was  too  thoroughly  absorbed  in  his  own  somber  re 
flections  to  wonder  why  the  good  priest  had  greeted  him 
so  sadly. 

"I  have  been  a  fool,  perhaps.  I  get  only  ingratitude 
after  all  I  have  done." 

"To  be  a  fool  for  Christ's  sake  is  commended  by  God," 
said  the  priest.  "And  Christ  understands.  To  be  a  fool 
for  the  sake  of  those  who  do  not  understand — well,  Christ 
Himself  did  that — judged  from  human  standards.  Ah, 
I  do  not  boast  of  my  poor  little  sacrifices.  But  when  I 
am  downcast  I  comfort  myself  by  some  such  thought — I 
spur  myself  on  again,  for  I  shall  not  be  a  coward  and 
cease  to  do  good  as  it  comes  to  my  hand  to  do  it." 

127 


THE    RED   LANE 

"I  thank  you,  Father  Leclair,"  said  Representative 
Clifford.  "I  needed  that  rebuke." 

"It  was  not  meant  for  rebuke.  I  have  my  own  sor 
row,  sir.  I  have  thought  of  my  own  people  before  I  have 
thought  of  myself.  As  a  man  interested  in  men  I  say 
it  to  you.  So  I  have  worked  for  you  and  with  you.  I 
have  been  glad  that  the  good  State  has  remembered  these 
people.  I  have  been  glad  that  the  big  school  was  built 
yonder  on  that  hill.  I  have  rebuked  those  who  said  it 
was  a  Yankee  device  to  win  our  people  from  their  religion. 
For  I  believe  that  all  wisdom  is  of  God,  and  that  the  springs 
of  it  should  neither  be  diluted  by  creed  nor  dammed  by 
creed.  Ah,  a  bold  thing  is  that  for  a  priest  to  say,  Mon 
sieur!  But  I  have  despised  a  prejudice  that  kept  any 
good  thing  away  from  good  people  who  needed  help." 

"That  is  right,  Father  Leclair.  You  are  the  most 
liberal  priest  I  ever  knew.  You  have  helped  me  to  help 
these  folks  on  the  border.  I  don't  believe  you  will  ever 
regret  it." 

Father  Leclair  laid  his  old  hat  on  the  grass.  His 
fingers  trembled  as  he  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket. 

"It  is  from  the  vicar-general,"  he  explained,  emotion 
in  his  tones.  "It  is  rebuke  from  the  bishop." 

"I  have  been  afraid  that  something  like  this  would 
happen,"  admitted  the  patriarch,  after  a  silence.  "Your 
bishop  is  whipping  me  across  your  shoulders,  father.  He 
means  me  when  he  scolds  you.  But  when  I  opposed 
grants  of  State  money  to  sectarian  schools  I  was  honest 
in  my  belief  that  the  principle  was  wrong.  I  believe  so 
now.  The  bishop  is  still  thinking  of  his  parochial  schools. 
I'm  afraid  I'm  a  dangerous  friend  for  you  to  own,  Father 
Leclair." 

"There  is  a  warning  in  the  letter.  I  must  not  counsel 
my  people  regarding  their  votes,  the  letter  directs.  I 

128 


THE    PACT  OF   THE   ORCHARD 

must  advise  fathers  and  mothers  to  take  their  boys  and 
girls  out  of  the  big  new  school.  I  am  warned  that  further 
association  with  Representative  Clifford,  who  has  shown 
enmity  to  our  religion  and  has  discriminated  against  our 
schools,  will  be  considered  wilful  contumacy  and  will  be 
punished." 

"Yes,  I  have  been  expecting  all  that,  father,"  said  the 
old  man,  his  melancholy  deepening.  "Spies  are  busy 
about  us.  What  we  are  trying  to  do  has  been  miscon 
strued.  The  bishop  does  not  understand.  He  is  broad- 
minded.  He  has  developed  schools  wonderfully.  He 
must  have  been  influenced  by  lies.  I  suppose  Blais  has 
stirred  this  latest  trouble." 

"I  chided  him  before  the  people — I  tore  down  his  re 
bellious  flag.  He  was  leading  our  good  men  to  the  ways 
of  violence.  It  was  right  for  me  to  do  so." 

"But  it  sounds  different  when  it  is  reported  by  an 
enemy.  I  have  been  afraid  my  association  with  you 
would  hurt.  I  am  sorry  it  has  brought  you  this  rebuke. 
I'll  keep  away,  Father  Leclair.  You  are  too  good  a  man 
to  be  harmed  in  this  way." 

He  rose  and  put  out  his  hand. 

"No,  sit  down,  Monsieur."  The  priest  pressed  him 
gently  back  into  his  chair.  "I  am  a  poor  parish  priest. 
I  recognize  the  authority  of  those  in  the  high  places.  I 
want  to  obey  the  men  whom  God  has  placed  over  me." 

He  walked  a  few  steps  away  from  the  sheltering  tree 
and  pointed  at  the  great  building  on  the  hill. 

"But  how  can  I  tell  fathers  and  mothers  to  take  their 
children  away  from  that  school,  until  our  own  great  men 
understand  our  people  up  here  and  give  our  boys  and 
girls  what  they  need?" 

Honest  tears  struggled  in  the  wrinkles  of  his  cheeks. 
The  dusk  was  down,  and  the  purple  shadows  had  swept 

129 


THE    RED    LANE 

out  from  the  river-valleys  across  the  fields;  but  the  old 
man  who  gazed  on  the  priest  from  his  chair  could  see  the 
tears. 

"The  soil  has  been  good  to  our  people  all  through  the 
years,"  said  Father  Leclair.  "It  fed  them  in  old  Nor 
mandy;  it  has  fed  them  on  this  side  of  the  great  water. 
But  sad  troubles  brood  over  us  now,  and  the  soil  is  not 
for  all  the  people  as  it  was  in  the  old  days.  The  great 
school  on  the  hill  has  brought  new  hopes  and  new  oppor 
tunities,  my  good  friend.  There  are  tools  of  honest 
trades  there.  Wise  men  teach  our  boys,  and  good  women 
instruct  our  girls.  I  have  seen  the  boys  go  away  from 
Acadia  in  the  past;  but  they  carried  their  own  hands 
only,  and  the  great  world  swept  over  them.  When  the 
boys  shall  step  out  from  the  new  school  they  will  be 
skilled  in  handicraft,  wise  in  the  ways  one  must  know 
if  he  is  to  get  on  and  go  high.  Ah,  Monsieur,  we  need 
such  schools  here  to  teach  the  young  how  to  win  their 
way.  Our  own  great  schools  are  in  the  cities— not  here! 
Some  day  my  wise  superiors  will  build  those  schools  for 
us.  Up  there  on  the  hill  a  boy  learns  the  language  of  the 
nation  in  which  he  lives.  He  learns  the  trades  of  that 
nation.  His  father  bowed  his  back  over  the  soil  and 
had  little.  It  is  my  hope  for  the  future  of  the  Acadians 
that  the  children  may  win  more  from  hard  toil  than  the 
poor  fathers  obtained. 

He  came  back  and  stood  before  the  patriarch. 

"  So  I  shall  obey  conscience,"  he  declared;  "  I  shall 
ask  the  good  God  to  soften  the  heart  of  my  bishop." 

"  That  is  a  noble  stand,  father,"  said  the  old  man  in 
the  chair.  He  wagged  his  head  doubtfully.  "  But  it  is 
an  almighty  bold  one." 

"  I  shall  write  my  bishop.  I  shall  tell  him  all  the 
truth.  I  shall  entreat  him.  I  shall  make  him  understand. ' ' 

130 


THE    PACT   OF    THE    ORCHARD 

"I  met  him  once  down  at  the  legislature — your  bishop. 
I  was  on  the  committee  of  education.  He  came  to  ask 
that  State  money  be  given  to  the  parochial  schools.  Ask? 
No,  he  demanded.  He  said  that  the  people  of  his  Church 
paid  many  thousands  of  dollars  in  taxes,  and  that  this 
money  goes  for  Yankee  schools.  There  is  some  justice 
in  his  stand.  I'm  a  fair  man.  I  admit  it.  But  I 
believe  there  is  another  place  for  religious  teachings  be 
sides  the  schools.  I  told  him  so.  I  spoke  of  our  plans 
for  the  big  school  at  Attegat.  He  shook  his  ringer  at 
me  and  was  bitter.  I  want  to  advise  you  as  a  friend, 
father;  be  careful  what  you  write  to  your  bishop.  Be 
careful  what  stand  you  take  in  this  matter.  There  are 
enemies  who  may  distort." 

"I  shall  demand  that  he  listen  to  the  truth." 

"You  have  been  here  a  great  many  years,  father. 
Your  people  need  you.  It  is  your  home — this  house, 
your  barn,  your  garden.  I  could  never  forgive  myself 
if  you  got  into  trouble  through  me.  Think  well  before 
you  start  to  disobey  the  bishop." 

"But  shall  I  allow  a  man  like  Blais  to  force  me  to  tell 
the  boys  and  girls  to  leave  the  new  school?  Sooner  will 
I  tear  out  my  tongue!" 

He  came  back  to  his  chair  and  picked  up  his  broad 
hat.  He  hugged  it  against  his  breast,  and  the  two  old  men 
were  silent,  looking  away  into  the  summer  night. 

Norman  Aldrich  found  them  there.  He  came  walking 
down  through  the  orchard  leading  his  horse.  He  brought 
news  from  the  south. 

"It's  sorrowful  business.  The  officers  are  putting  the 
squatters  out  of  their  homes  in  the  clearings.  The  owners 
have  been  waiting  until  the  summer  days  are  long  and 
warm,  the  officers  tell  me.  They  think  that  their  delay 
till  now  is  showing  consideration  for  the  settlers.  But  I 


THE    RED    LANE 

do  not  see  any  consideration  in  this  business.  They  are 
driving  the  poor  people  away  from  the  little  crops  they  have 
put  in — the  people  have  nothing  but  the  soil  to  feed  them. 
The  houses  along  the  river  are  crowded.  The  men  who 
are  responsible  for  this  do  not  understand  the  situation 
up  here,  Representative  Clifford.  'Let  them  go  here — 
let  them  go  there,'  they  say.  But  the  Acadians  are  not 
nomads.  It's  like  tearing  trees  up  by  the  roots!" 

"I  have  tried  to  tell  them  down  there  at  the  legisla 
ture,  Friend  Aldrich.  I  have  begged  for  money  until  they 
have  pointed  their  fingers  at  me.  'Educate  'em — make 
something  out  of  'em  besides  farmers,'  I  have  pleaded. 
Education — training  in  trades — will  give  the  boys  courage 
to  start  out  into  the  world  of  the  Yankees.  That's  why 
I  toiled  early  and  late  until  I  got  the  big  school  up  there. 
With  a  little  patience  we  could  have  worked  the  thing 
out.  I  hoped  that  the  owners  of  the  timber-lands  under 
stood.  I  explained  it  all  as  best  I  could." 

"Ah,  Monsieur,  you  could  not  talk  social  evolution  to 
the  men  of  a  log-cutting  syndicate  and  have  them  under 
stand,"  said  the  priest. 

"They  understood  better  what  their  timber  cruisers 
told  them,"  stated  the  customs  man.  "That  report 
showed  that  every  clearing  was  a  menace  to  standing 
timber.  That's  the  proper  business  view  to  take  of  it. 
Up  here  we  see  and  understand  the  human  side  of  this 
thing.  The  managers  of  a  timber  syndicate  down  there 
in  the  city  reckon  these  Acadian  squatters  in  the  same 
class  with  porcupines.  The  porcupines  damage  standing 
timber — so  do  the  squatters.  Off  they  must  go!  The 
timber  cruisers  recommend  it." 

"  I  ought  to  have  understood.  I  ought  to  have  remem 
bered  that  dollars  are  impatient,"  mourned  the  patriarch. 
"Dollars  will  not  pause  and  reflect  that  human  natures 

132 


THE    PACT   OF   THE   ORCHARD 

are  not  remodeled  overnight.  The  big  school  —  but  I 
realize  that  the  school  must  go  slowly  and  surely.  It 
will  prevail  in  the  end — it  will  redeem  Acadia.  But  I 
ought  to  have  foreseen  these  troubles.  I  have  been 
moving  about  my  district,  Friend  Aldrich.  The  men 
scowl  at  me.  I  know  I  should  have  paid  more  attention 
to  the  business  side.  I  am  at  fault.  Dollars  will  not 
wait  in  these  days." 

"The  State  ought  to  intervene,"  declared  Aldrich. 

"The  landowners  are  moving  strictly  within  their 
rights." 

"I  mean  that  this  great  State  cannot  afford  to  lose 
these  people  as  citizens.  I  have  been  thinking  this  mat 
ter  over,  Mr.  Clifford.  Would  it  not  be  possible  for  the 
next  legislature  to  pass  a  special  act — buy  these  lands, 
open  them  to  settlers,  make  good  the  titles  of  the  fifty 
thousand  acres  on  which  men  and  women  have  made 
their  homes?" 

"  I  am  afraid  the  lawmakers  are  too  selfish.  They  have 
always  laughed  at  me  and  my  'Canucks.'  I  would  be 
called  a  madman  if  I  should  ask  for  what  you  have  sug 
gested.  I  know  legislatures.  I  have  served  in  many  of 
them." 

"Nevertheless,  I  believe  it  can  be  done,"  cried  Aldrich. 
"I  am  young  and  full  of  folly,  you  see,  Representative 
Clifford." 

"And  I  am  old  and  also  full  of  folly — I  should  have 
foreseen  what  might  happen  to  these  poor  people.  The 
men  have  good  reason  to  scowl  at  me.  I  am  too  old. 
I  will  tell  them  that  I  will  step  aside  and  let  a  younger 
man  go  to  the  Capitol." 

"No,  you  shall  not  step  aside,"  insisted  Pere  Leclair. 

"I  agree  with  my  good  friend,"  said  Aldrich,  caressing 
the  priest's  shoulder.  "You  must  go  back  to  the  legis- 
10  i33 


THE    RED    LANE 

lature,  Mr.  Clifford.  You  have  done  much  for  these 
folks;  you  shall  do  much  more.  We  shall  consider  this 
matter  of  the  lands.  You  shall  have  help.  Do  you 
know  Attorney  Winton  Dole?  He  was  in  the  last 
House." 

"I  do.  He  is  an  able  young  man.  And  he  did  not 
weary  his  elders  with  continued  declamations  on  the  floor. 
Yes,  an  able  young  man." 

"He  was  my  classmate  in  college.  He  was  with  me 
on  the  border  for  a  time  last  winter  in  the  hunting  season. 
I  anticipated  a  part  of  this  land  trouble.  We  discussed 
special  legislation,  he  and  I." 

The  patriarch  rose  and  put  his  hand  on  Aldrich's  arm 
and  regarded  him  with  fresh  interest. 

"I  did  not  know  before  that  you  were  a  college  man." 

Aldrich  smiled. 

"I  did  not  feel  that  it  would  be  a  matter  of  special 
interest  along  this  border  whether  I  had  an  A.B.  degree  or 
not.  In  fact,  my  friends,  the  smugglers,  would  show  even 
more  prompt  contempt  for  a  school  man.  So  I  hope  you 
will  keep  my  little  secret,  you  and  Father  Leclair.  I  was 
obliged  to  work  my  way  through  college.  I  tried  to  do 
too  much.  I  came  out  with  nervous  prostration  and  a 
sheepskin!  You  understand  why  I  came  into  the  open 
country  of  the  border.  Some  day  I'll  go  back  to  the  city 
and  go  into  Winton's  office  as  a  law-student.  Pardon 
me!  That's  all  about  myself!  I  have  mentioned  it  only 
that  you  may  understand  how  close  Winton  and  I  are. 
He  believes  that  the  State  ought  to  protect  and  encourage 
these  citizens  of  the  border.  You  see  we  have  a  strong 
ally,  Representative  Clifford!  For  myself,  I  am  in  this 
thing  with  all  my  heart.  I  shall  go  down  before  the  next 
legislature  and  talk  to  the  committees  with  every  argu 
ment  I  can  bring  to  bear.  You  and  I  and  Winton  will 


THE    PACT    OF    THE    ORCHARD 

labor  together.  Let's  clasp  hands  on  it,  Mr.  Clifford. 
My  whole  soul  is  in  the  thing — for  it  is  right." 

"Ah,  you  two  can  accomplish  much,  working  together," 
cried  the  priest.  He  patted  the  clasped  hands  of  his 
friends.  "But  if  Louis  Blais  were  to  replace  Represen 
tative  Clifford!  It  would  be  disaster!  It  would  ruin 
all." 

"Truly  it  would,"  affirmed  Aldrich.  "It  must  all  be 
done  sensibly,  sanely,  carefully.  Blais  is  not  sensible. 
He  is  not  safe.  He  is  not  of  good  repute.  He  is  a  fence 
of  smugglers.  I  have  a  healthy  dislike  for  that  young 
man.  David  Roi  is  his  best  friend.  You  are  right,  good 
P£re  Leclair.  Attegat  must  despair  if  Blais  goes  to  the 
legislature.  The  people  must  be  warned — must  wake 
up  to  the  danger." 

"It  is  wonderful  to  have  friends  who  are  young,"  said 
the  priest,  smiling  at  the  officer. 

"Yes,  it  gives  an  old  man  new  courage,"  cried  the 
patriarch.  "I  will  go  among  my  people  again.  I  will 
try  hard  to  show  them  that  there  is  a  way  out  for  us  if 
they  will  be  patient.  The  big  school  will  win  in  the  end. 
The  State  will  listen  when  new  voices  speak." 

"And  I  shall  stand  with  you,  my  good  friends,"  de 
clared  the  priest.  "I  shall  pray  that  the  ones  in  high 
places  may  incline  their  hearts  to  me  and  understand 
that  I  am  not  disobedient.  For  the  ways  of  the  north 
country  are  not  to  be  hedged  about  by  narrow  creed.  I 
shall  put  myself  where  my  duty  calls  me." 

They  had  been  talking  long.  The  still  night  lay  about 
them.  Representative  Clifford  turned  to  go,  and  as  he 
turned  he  cast  a  glance  at  the  gloomy  bulk  of  the  school 
on  the  hill — temple  of  his  hopes  tor  the  newer  generation 
of  the  Acadians. 

He  shouted  wordlessly,  pointing  his  quivering  ringer. 


THE    RED    LANE 

A  dull-red  glow  painted  the  outline  of  its  lower  windows 
against  the  night. 

'That  is  fire!"  .He  declared  it  in  the  tense  tones  of 
one  who  announces  the  end  of  all  things.  "The  big 
school  is  on  fire!" 

The  next  instant,  from  one  of  the  glowing  windows, 
tongues  of  flame  came  licking.  The  fire  streamed  up  the 
side  of  the  building. 

Aldrich  leaped  upon  his  horse  and  went  clattering  away 
down  the  village  street,  shouting  alarm.  The  two  old 
men  followed  on  foot. 

The  bell  of  the  parish  church  began  to  clang. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,  Monsieur!  It  is  sad  fate  overtaking 
Attegat,"  gasped  the  little  priest. 

"That  isn't  fate — it's  hellishness !"  Clifford  roared. 
"They've  let  themselves  be  bamboozled!  They've  start 
ed  in  to  fight  the  Yankees!  They  don't  know  what  they 
are  doing.  Oh,  how  can  I  talk  to  a  legislature  about 
helping  'em  after  this?" 

'It  is  not  the  people — it  is  not  the  poor  people  who 
do  this,"  insisted  Father  Leclair.  "It  has  been  done  by 
those  who  wish  to  lead  them  into  trouble.  There  are 
men  who  will  profit  by  trouble  on  this  border.  Ah,  it  is 
not  my  poor  people  who  have  done  this!" 

Men,  women,  and  children  flocked  in  the  village  street 
ahead  of  the  two  old  men.  The  strident  clamor  of  many 
voices,  the  mad  clangor  of  the  church  bell,  made  bedlam 
of  the  night. 

The  patriarch  groaned,  peering  up  at  the  building  as 
he  hurried.  Flames  were  waving  crimson  bannerets 
from  bursting  windows;  even  to  the  cornices  were  the 
red  tongues  reaching  now.  The  great  building  was 
doomed. 


XI 

THE  FUNERAL   PYRE   OF   ACADIAN   HOPES 

pRMAN  ALDRICH,  his  horse  galloping 
wildly,  was  in  the  vanguard  of  the  rush 
of  persons  up  the  hill.     He  understood 
the  futility  of  his  haste.     The  little  vil 
lage  had  no  means  with  which  to  cope 
with  a  fire  of  that  magnitude.     He  could 
only  go  along  with  the  others  and  watch  the  ruin  wrought. 
Suddenly  he  swung  to  the  side  of  the  road  and  checked 
his  horse. 

Evangeline  Beaulieu  stood  at  Madame  Ouillette's 
gate,  her  eyes  wide  with  horror,  her  lips  apart,  staring 
at  the  leaping  flames.  The  baleful  light  illumined  her  face 
and  revealed  her  to  him. 

"It  is  wicked!"  he  cried,  running  to  her,  his  bridle-rein 
on  his  arm.  And  when  he  arrived  closer,  where  no  one 
could  hear,  he  tried  to  comfort  her  with  words  of  love, 
for  he  realized  the  sorrow  this  spectacle  brought  to  her. 
He  tethered  his  horse  in  Madame  Ouillette's  yard,  out 
of  the  way  of  those  hurrying  along  the  road,  for  Madame 
Ouillette  came  out  and  gave  him  permission. 

"You  shall  know,  M'ser  Officer,  that  I  have  been  fear 
ing  some  great  trouble  for  Attegat.     I  have  been  warned !" 
she  cried.     And  he  questioned  her  eagerly  and  anxiously. 
In  his  own  heart  he  knew  that  this  fire  was  no  accident. 
The  time  was  ripe  for  a  criminal  deed  of  this  sort. 
"He  has  been  frowning  very  much — my  Xavier's  pic- 

137 


THE    RED    LANE 

ture  has  told  me  that  much  sorrow  was  on  the  way,"  she 
said,  and  he  turned  back  to  Evangeline,  muttering  his 
angry  disappointment.  He  knew  from  P£re  Leclair  the 
ingenuous  superstition  of  Madame  Ouillette. 

"I  will  lead  you  nearer,"  he  told  the  distressed  girl. 
"Will  you  not  come,  Madame?  We  can  do  nothing  ex 
cept  look  on.  That  is  poor  consolation.  But  we  shall  go 
closer  and  mourn  the  loss  of  the  best  friend  Attegat  had." 

They  joined  the  men  and  women  who  were  hastening 
up  the  hill. 

They  were  in  time  to  behold  a  bearded  man  come 
rushing  out  of  the  main  door.  Several  young  men  fol 
lowed  him.  In  their  arms  they  carried  a  few  books, 
^some  tools  of  trades,  a  map  or  two,  a  globe — random 
articles  which  had  been  salvaged  in  a  panic  of  haste. 

The  flare  of  the  flames  lighted  all  the  landscape 
around. 

The  bearded  man  came  staggering  to  the  hillock  where 
Aldrich  and  his  companions  had  taken  their  stand,  pant 
ing  words  of  excited  grief. 

"It  was  a  set  fire,  Captain  Aldrich.  I  know  it.  We 
have  had  no  fires  in  the  building  for  weeks.  I  smelled 
the  oil  the  moment  I  ran  into  the  main  room.  It  is 
outrage.  It  is  dastardly  crime." 

"It  is  more  than  that — worse  than  that,  Master  Don- 
ham.  This  is  the  ruin  of  our  hopes!"  Representative 
Clifford,  spent  and  gasping  for  breath,  had  reached  the 
hillock.  "They  have  thrown  away  the  greatest  gift  our 
State  has  given  them.  They  never  can  expect  help  or 
consideration  again." 

Father  Leclair,  his  face  white  with  his  exertions, 
climbed  the  hillock  slowly. 

"This  has  not  been  done  by  my  poor  people.  It  is  a 
plot  by  their  enemies.  They  have  been  misled — inflamed ! 

138 


THE    FUNERAL    PYRE 

My  people  have  been  deceived,"  he  affirmed,  with  pathetic 
loyalty. 

"But  they  must  shoulder  the  blame,  Father  Leclair," 
said  the  master.  His  voice  trembled,  and  his  features, 
lighted  by  the  flames,  displayed  his  grief  and  passion. 
"The  men  of  this  parish  have  been  muttering  and  threat 
ening  the  Yankees.  They  have  been  cheering  another 
flag  than  the  flag  of  their  country.  They  have  been  en 
couraging  lawlessness.  Look  at  that!"  He  pointed  to 
the  great  building,  which  was  now  flaming  like  a  torch. 
"It  is  setting  vicious  teeth  into  the  hand  stretched  out 
to  help." 

Aldrich,  standing  close  to  Evangeline,  pressed  palm 
against  palm.  He  dared  not  offer  more  than  this  covert 
act  of  consolation.  Tears  were  on  her  cheeks.  On  this 
blazing  pyre  her  own  hopes  of  honest  work  and  livelihood 
were  being  offered  up.  She  felt  more  utterly  homeless  than 
when  she  had  walked  out  of  Monarda  clearing.  She  felt 
a  vague,  wistful  fear  that  now  her  people  were  homeless, 
too.  She  had  heard  what  the  men  said.  She  understood 
how  this  tragedy  would  be  translated  by  those  who  did 
not  know  her  people  as  she  knew  them.  The  conflagra 
tion  lighted  all  the  scene  for  her.  She  gazed  here  and 
there  and  saw  faces  of  the  children.  The  children  were 
huddled  among  the  elders,  and  all  their  faces  were  sad. 
The  resentment,  the  suspicion,  the  passions,  the  grudges 
of  the  grown  folks  were  not  in  the  children.  The  chil 
dren  understood  best  of  all  what  the  loss  of  the  school 
meant. 

They  stood  there  and  mourned  the  tools  with  which 
their  hands  had  wrought,  the  tools  which  had  opened 
new  vistas  of  opportunity  to  them.  They  mourned  the 
building  which  had  housed  them  and  which  had  grown 
dear  to  them  without  ceasing  to  be  wonderful;  each  re- 

139 


THE    RED    LANE 

membered  some  bit  of  unfinished  work  which  had  been 
put  aside  lovingly  until  the  morrow.  The  children  had 
had  so  little  in  their  lives  until  the  school  opened  its  doors 
to  all  the  valley!  So  their  faces  were  sad;  and  Evange- 
line  looked  down  on  them  and  understood. 

Once  more  she  felt  that  mysterious  exaltation  swelling 
within  her.  Bold  devotion  to  these  poor  people  thrilled 
her.  Intuitively  she  understood  them  in  their  candor, 
their  simple-heartedness — kind  and  generous,  but  as  ir 
responsible  as  children.  She  knew  that  those  in  authority 
would  judge  them  as  men  and  women;  the  judgment  did 
them  injustice. 

Aldrich  left  her  with  a  muttered  word.  He  walked 
down  from  the  hillock.  He  went  to  Louis  Blais.  The 
young  attorney  was  threading  his  way  among  the  people, 
haranguing  them. 

"They  will  taunt  us.  They  will  say  we  have  burned 
their  school-house,  good  men  and  women  of  Attegat. 
Their  own  guilty  consciences  will  make  them  say  that. 
They  know  inside  that  we  had  good  reason  to  burn  it. 
But  we  did  not  do  so.  Of  course,  the  good  folks  of  this 
parish  would  not  break  the  law.  The  Yankees  will  ac 
cuse  themselves  when  they  accuse  us.  They  know  that 
this  school  was  placed  here  to  break  our  spirit,  to  train 
our  boys  and  girls  to  be  slaves  to  the  Yankees.  It  is 
better  out  of  the  way.  We  had  nothing  to  do  with  re 
moving  it.  But  this  fire  shows  that  the  luck  of  the 
Acadians  is  turning.  Keep  on  and  follow  the  right 
leader  after  this." 

He  spoke  to  them  in  French;  but  Aldrich  under 
stood. 

"I  do  not  like  that  talk,  Blais."  The  attorney  whirled 
and  blinked  angrily  at  the  man  who  had  dared  to  inter 
rupt  him.  "You  have  been  busy  here  in  this  parish  for 

140 


THE    FUNERAL    PYRE 

a  week  or  so,  stirring  trouble.  Now  see  what  has  hap 
pened!  Are  you  trying  to  ruin  these  people?" 

"I  think  it  is  your  job  to  sniff  along  the  trail  of  smug 
glers,"  retorted  the  lawyer,  insolently.  "You'd  better 
stick  to  your  job." 

"I  will  attend  to  that  work  as  an  officer,  Blais.  But 
I'm  talking  to  you  just  now  as  a  man.  You  have  been 
ste'boying  on  these  men  and  standing  back  to  look  on, 
as  you'd  watch  a  dog-fight.  You  are  as  much  respon 
sible  for  this  dreadful  happening  as  though  you  had 
poured  the  oil  and  lighted  the  match,"  he  declared,  hotly. 

"So  now  you  are  accusing  my  friends  and  neighbors  of 
being  firebugs,  are  you,  you  Yankee  spy?"  demanded  the 
lawyer,  with  just  as  much  heat.  "That  is  an  insult,  and 
I  resent  it  in  their  name." 

The  bystanders  crowded  closer,  hemmed  in  the  two, 
and  men  muttered  resentfully. 

Aldrich's  nature  had  no  guile  in  it.  He  always  struck 
out  openly  at  an  adversary.  He  did  not  fence.  Blais 
had  the  Gallic  temperament.  In  that  throng,  with  those 
listeners,  he  was  more  than  a  match  for  a  Yankee  whose 
chief  merit  was  his  straightforwardness. 

"You  shall  be  careful  what  you  say  of  me  or  of  my  peo 
ple,  M'ser  Customs  Spy."  Blais  advanced  with  upraised 
finger.  "There  are  laws  to  protect  a  man  from  slander." 

"And  there  are  other  laws!  There  are  laws  against 
treason,  Blais.  There  are  laws  against  provoking  mob 
violence.  Don't  try  to  fool  me.  You  are  a  knave,  and 
I  understand  you."  It  was  straight-arm  attack,  with 
Anglo-Saxon  directness. 

Blais,  his  face  convulsed  with  passion,  beat  swift 
tattoo  on  his  breast  with  his  palm. 

"I  am  insulted — slandered  for  your  sakes,  my  good 
friends.  Listen  to  him!  It  has  always  been  so — it  will 

141 


THE    RED    LANE 

always  be  so.  The  Yankees  call  us  dogs  and  villains. 
They  spit  upon  us.  All  right!  But  it  is  to  have  an  end. 
Look  at  that,  Mister  Yankee!"  He  swept  gesture  at  the 
roaring  mass  of  flames.  "Does  that  teach  you  a  lesson? 
Does  it  show  you  that  it  is  dangerous  to  tramp  upon  the 
rights  of  honest  men,  to  kick  them  out  from  under  your 
feet,  throw  them  off  the  lands  they  have  worked  so 
hard  to  make  fit  for  their  homes?  Do  you  think  the 
Acadians  will  always  run  like  dogs  who  have  been 
lashed?  Ah,  no!  It  is  fight  the  Yankees  want.  They 
have  shown  us  that.  Very  well!  The  Acadians  can 
fight.  You  will  remember  that  promise  later  when  the 
fires  go  sweeping  down  through  the  big  woods  those 
Yankee  thieves  have  taken  away  from  poor  men  who 
need  lands  for  homes.  You  look  at  me.  You  look  at 
these  men.  That  fire  there  makes  it  light  so  that  you 
can  see  our  faces!"  he  taunted,  brazenly.  "You  have 
asked  for  fight;  you  shall  have  it.  Go  tell  that  to  the 
Yankee  thieves." 

The  men  who  stood  about  yelled  frenzied  shouts  of 
applause.  The  excitement  of  the  moment  was  in  their 
blood.  The  conflagration  shone  redly  on  their  flushed 
faces  and  fired  their  spirits.  The  resentful  impulse  of 
the  unthinking  mob  animated  them. 

Blais  rushed  to  the  young  officer  and  snapped  derisive 
fingers  under  his  nose.  That  was  more  than  youth  and 
righteous  indignation  could  endure.  Aldrich  caught  the 
attorney's  wrist,  twitched  him  off  his  feet,  and,  with  hand 
clutched  in  the  collar  of  his  frock-coat,  shook  Blais  as 
one  would  shake  a  refractory  dog.  When  he  had  finished 
he  tossed  the  demagogue  away  contemptuously.  Blais 
fell  sprawling  under  the  feet  of  the  men. 

Aldrich  held  up  his  hand  warningly  when  the  mob 
made  a  movement  toward  him. 

142 


"Hold  on,  men!  Let's  not  make  this  thing  worse 
than  it  is.  You  don't  know  your  real  friends  just  now. 
You  will  wake  up  later." 

He  turned  and  went  back  to  the  hillock,  and,  though 
they  cursed  him  and  jeered,  they  did  not  follow. 

"I  lost  my  temper,  Father  Leclair.  I  am  sorry.  But 
oh,  the  fools!" 

He  stood  close  to  the  girl  and  pressed  her  trembling 
hand. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  a  good  mediator,"  he  murmured. 
"  I  seem  to  stir  trouble  and  make  enemies  wherever  I  go. 
Your  father  hates  me,  and  now  your  people  hate  me." 

"It  is  wicked  trouble  which  has  come  upon  us  all," 
she  faltered.  "We  all  seem  to  be  struggling  against  each 
other  in  the  dark." 

The  floors  were  falling  inside  the  burning  building,  the 
beams  and  sills  were  crashing,  and  at  last  the  bell  went 
clanging  dully  into  the  white-hot  vortex  of  the  ruins. 

"I  will  take  you  and  Madame  Ouillette  back  home," 
Aldrich  told  the  girl.  "It  is  all  over." 

The  little  group — the  master  of  the  school,  his  assist 
ants,  the  priest,  the  patriarch — had  remained  on  the  hil 
lock.  They  were  the  true  mourners  that  night.  The 
children  mourned,  too.  But  the  men  of  Attegat  held 
aloof  from  those  on  the  mound  and  scowled  at  them. 
There  was  rebelliousness  in  that  mob ;  but  there  was  awe 
there,  as  well — awe  and  apprehensiveness.  The  whisper 
ran  from  mouth  to  mouth,  "Who  did  this?"  Pe"re  Le 
clair  had  been  among  his  people,  appealing  to  this  one 
or  that,  rebuking  all.  When  he  had  returned  to  the  little 
group  his  face  was  stern,  but  there  was  pity  in  his  eyes. 

"No,  my  poor  people  did  not  do  this,"  he  insisted. 
' '  They  are  stubborn,  they  are  not  penitent .  I  am  ashamed . 
I  am  sad.  But  this  is  not  the  wicked  work  of  the  many — 

143 


THE    RED    LANE 

it  is  the  work  of  one  or  a  few.  However,  the  people  must 
accept  the  blame.  I  am  sorry  for  Attegat." 

"Wait!"  cried  Master  Donham.  He  halted  Aldrich, 
who  was  leading  Evangeline  away.  "I  want  to  say  this 
to  my  few  friends  who  are  here  and  to  my  teachers.  We 
have  no  fine  building  any  longer.  It  will  be  ashes  when 
the  sun  rises  to-morrow.  But  this  school  is  going  on. 
Of  old  they  taught  the  young  under  the  trees,  in  the  fields, 
by  the  sides  of  the  hedge-rows.  It  is  summer.  I  will 
teach  under  the  trees  until  the  rain  comes.  I  will  go  out 
side  and  beg  for  a  tent.  I  will  humble  myself  and  beg 
for  more  tools.  I  will  show  the  State  that  this  school 
cannot  be  stopped.  There  are  good  men  and  good  women 
in  this  State  who  will  come  forward  and  help  us  when 
they  understand  what  we  are  doing  for  the  boys  and  girls 
of  this  border.  Take  that  word  about  with  you — this 
school  cannot  be  stopped." 

Aldrich  left  Evangeline  with  Madame  Ouillette  at  the 
gate  of  the  cottage.  The  look  she  gave  him  when  they 
parted  was  as  dear  a  caress  as  an  embrace. 

"We  won't  despair,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  brave  battle- 
cry,  the  one  Master  Donham  has  sounded.  With  hope 
and  the  trees  and  a  few  umbrellas  it  will  be  quite  a  grand 
school,  after  all.  Did  you  see  the  faces  of  the  children  light 
up  when  the  master  went  among  them  to  tell  the  news?" 

"I  have  my  courage  all  back.  Yes,  I  have  all  the  old 
courage  and  more — because  I  need  more  from  now  on." 

He  said  a  soft  good  night  to  her  and  hurried  down  the 
hill,  leading  his  horse,  for  Clifford  and  the  priest  had 
walked  on  ahead. 

"The  Maid  of  Orleans  must  have  had  that  look  on  her 
face  when  the  call  came  in  the  old  days,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  There  was  to  come  a  time  when  he  would  declare 
that  belief  even  more  fervently. 


XII 

THE   SACRIFICE   OF   PERE    LECLAIR 

0  the  folks  of  Attegat  parish  came  to 
church. 

Sagging  buckboards  rumbled  down  from 
the  north  with  the  clans  of  the  Cyrs  and 
the  Pelletiers.  Up  from  the  south  rode 
the  Archambeaults,  the  Heberts,  the 
Daignaults,  and  all  the  rest.  They  came  also  on  foot  by 
families,  following  the  lanes  which  led  to  the  river  road, 
straggling  across  the  fields.  Here  and  there  a  rusty  top- 
carriage  distinguished  some  habitant  farmer;  but  buck- 
boards  brought  most  of  the  people. 

An  average  congregation  at  Pere  Leclair's  church  com 
prised  one  thousand  men,  women,  and  children. 

There  were  many  more  this  day.  From  distant  clear 
ings,  where  the  sheriffs  had  done  their  work  of  eviction, 
families  had  come  to  crowd  the  little  houses  of  the  river- 
valley.  These  folks  came  to  church,  too.  They  were 
eager  to  assemble  with  others  of  the  border  in  conference. 
There  were  great  matters  to  be  discussed;  there  were 
wrongs  to  be  canvassed.  The  holy  day  gave  opportunity ; 
the  church  was  a  convenient  rallying -point ;  the  green 
sward  before  it  offered  suitable  arena  for  a  mass-meeting. 
Many  were  there  before  the  dew  was  off  the  grass. 
Hundreds  of  others  came  early.  Men  talked  in  low  tones. 
They  were  tense;  they  were  mournful.  The  poisoned 
word  had  gone  among  them,  that  was  plain. 


THE    RED    LANE 

Had  they  not  been  betrayed  by  those  in  power?  they 
asked  each  other.  True,  this  and  that  had  been  given 
to  the  poor  people  in  the  past,  but  now  much,  very  much 
— homes  and  lands — were  taken  away.  They  had  not  been 
beggars  or  paupers.  They  had  worked  hard.  But,  after 
feeding  all  the  mouths  and  clothing  all  the  backs,  there 
was  little  money  left  for  building  roads  and  bridges  or 
hiring  teachers  or  erecting  schools.  So  they  had  taken 
the  money  of  the  State  with  gratitude.  And  now  the 
State  allowed  men  to  come  and  drive  them  away  from 
their  homes;  and  the  men  said  it  was  according  to  the 
law.  What  good  were  the  roads  and  the  schools  and  the 
bridges  to  men  who  had  no  homes? 

Ere  the  sun  was  high  the  broad,  turfed  space  before  the 
church  was  thronged,  and  the  hum  of  voices  was  like  the 
angry  buzzing  from  a  giant  hive. 

The  men  looked  into  one  another's  tanned  faces,  mut 
tering  despondently  or  growling  threats.  The  women 
murmured  their  forebodings;  and  the  children  listened 
wistfully. 

Was  it,  after  all,  a  fact  that  the  Acadians  were  not  like 
the  other  citizens  of  the  State;  that  they  were  serfs 
instead  of  free  men,  that  the  Yankees  considered  them 
aliens  in  citizenship  and  children  in  importance? 

Well,  there  had  been  a  lesson  for  the  Yankees  in  one 
affair  which  had  happened.  The  men  who  said  this 
pointed  furtively  to  the  blackened,  fire-scarred  chimneys 
which  marked  the  site  where  the  big  school  had  crowned 
the  hilltop.  There  were  only  a  few  of  these  men  who 
boasted  sullenly  in  this  way.  They  were  rough-looking 
men.  They  went  about  through  the  throngs,  and  the 
burden  of  their  discourse  was  that  it  was  time  for  the 
Acadians  to  show  some  of  their  old-time  spirit. 

When  Attorney  Louis  Blais  came  he  had  with  him  a 

146 


THE    SACRIFICE 

young  man  who  wore  gaiters  and  a  corduroy  riding-suit. 
Men  who  knew  said  that  this  was  David  Roi,  the  richest 
of  the  border  smugglers.  He  came  so  boldly  into  Attegat 
because  it  was  Sunday. 

They  strolled  on  the  edge  of  the  greensward,  arm  in 
arm,  with  a  word  now  and  then  for  one  of  the  rough  and 
surly  men. 

They  did  not  enter  the  church  until  the  others  had 
filed  in  past  the  font  and  had  taken  their  seats  in  the 
dim  interior.  The  two  lurked  in  the  vestibule  until 
Pere  Leclair  climbed  slowly  to  his  pulpit.  Then  they 
went  in  and  took  seats  behind  a  pillar. 

It  was  still  in  the  church,  so  still  that  all  the  people 
heard  the  priest's  crucifix  tinkle  against  the  reading-desk 
as  he  leaned  over  it  to  speak  to  them.  His  face  was  pale, 
and  he  wore  the  look  of  one  who  was  bravely  inviting  the 
fate  of  the  martyr.  The  people  did  not  understand  the 
expression  of  his  face.  They  did  not  know  of  that  letter 
from  the  bishop.  They  did  not  realize  that  their  little 
father  had  risen  from  his  knees  and  walked  out  to  them 
that  day,  after  a  weary  night  of  prayer  and  vigil  before 
the  altar  in  the  sacristy,  where  he  had  offered  up  his  own 
interests  as  a  sacrifice  for  what  he  believed  was  the  best 
good  of  his  parish.  He  was  disobeying  the  diocesan  head. 
He  himself  perceived  the  enormity  of  such  action,  viewed 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  Church.  He  could  not  justify 
himself  before  the  Church — he  could  only  justify  himself 
before  his  own  conscience.  He  felt  that  he  understood 
his  own  people  better  than  even  those  high  in  authority 
could  understand.  The  bishop  had  never  seen  those  peo 
ple.  He  had  never  visited  Acadia.  Father  Leclair  knew 
how  hard  it  would  be  to  explain  to  one  who  lacked  inti 
mate  sympathy. 

So  his  face  was  pale.  His  wrinkles  were  deeper.  His 

H7 


THE    RED    LANE 

voice  quavered  when  he  began  to  speak.  He  was  very 
weary.  They  peered  up  at  him  and  wondered,  because 
he  looked  so  old  and  ill — he  whose  face  had  always  been 
so  benign  and  cheery.  He  talked  to  them,  as  a  father  to 
his  children,  with  simple  words  from  the  heart. 

"Do  not  be  led  into  error,"  he  entreated  them.  "Re 
member  that  you  are  citizens  of  the  good  State  where 
you  live,  though  the  rest  of  your  fellow-citizens  are  far 
away  over  the  mountains  to  the  south.  They  will  under 
stand  pretty  soon.  There  are  good  men  there — good  men 
make  the  laws.  They  will  not  allow  other  good  men  to 
be  persecuted  or  wronged  as  soon  as  they  understand. 
But  if  you  are  not  good,  if  you  forget  yourselves  and 
follow  men  who  counsel  riot  and  rebellion,  then  the  men 
to  the  south  will  not  think  that  you  are  good  men.  You 
will  be  punished  as  bad  men.  Your  children  will  suffer 
because  their  fathers  have  broken  the  laws.  Very  soon 
you  will  be  called  on  to  vote.  You  must  not  vote  for 
a  man  who  asks  you  to  forget  the  country  in  which  you 
live.  You  will  not  vote  for  Louis  Blais,  for  he  advises 
wrong  things.  You  will  vote  for  a  good  man  who  has  done 
much  in  the  past  and  who  will  do  much  good  for  you  in 
the  future.  Do  not  forget  faithful  service.  You  can 
be  true  to  your  religion  and  can  remember  always  that 
you  are  Acadians.  But  let  us  strive  to  be  of  one  tongue 
with  our  brothers  of  the  south.  They  gave  us  the  big 
school  in  order  that  our  boys  and  girls  might  learn  much 
and  go  out  into  the  world  with  useful  trades — so  that  they 
may  be  just  as  smart  as  the  Yankee  boys  and  girls.  Don't 
you  understand  that  our  brothers  to  the  south  have  been 
generous?  They  are  lifting  us  up — they  are  not  making 
slaves." 

His  voice  grew  firmer.  His  tones  rang  through  the 
church.  He  was  then  defying  all  except  his  own  con- 

148 


THE    SACRIFICE 

science ;  he  was  obeying  what  he  believed  to  be  his 
duty. 

"I  counsel  you  to  send  your  boys  and  girls  to  the  school 
where  they  can  best  be  fitted  for  the  world.  The  shell 
of  the  big  school  has  been  destroyed.  But  the  soul  of  it 
is  still  there,  my  children.  Even  though  there  is  only 
God's  sky  above  those  who  teach  and  those  who  learn, 
the  school  is  still  there !  I  believe  our  brothers  will  under 
stand  if  we  are  loyal  and  obedient;  and  then  the  school 
will  again  arise  from  its  ashes  to  bless  us." 

Much  more  did  the  good  priest  say  to  his  people,  lean 
ing  over  the  desk,  pleading  with  them,  trying  to  make 
them  raise  their  sullen  eyes  to  his  and  survey  him  in  the 
old  frank  and  responsive  way. 

And  all  that  which  the  priest  said  Louis  Blais  wrote 
down  with  hurrying  pencil,  shielded  by  the  pillar  behind 
which  he  sat. 

He  went  away  before  the  benediction,  pausing  long 
enough  at  the  church  door  to  order  one  of  the  surly  men 
to  bring  the  others  to  the  law-office.  Thither  he  repaired 
with  Roi. 

While  the  smuggler  smoked  his  cigar  and  lolled  luxuri 
ously  in  the  sun,  Blais  wrought  with  pen  on  a  sheet 
of  broad,  fair,  legal  paper;  and  the  rough  men,  who 
came  one  by  one,  stood  at  the  sides  of  the  room  wait 
ing. 

"Listen,"  directed  the  attorney,  at  last.  "You  men, 
listen!" 

He  read  from  the  paper  the  priest's  words,  and  they 
nodded  affirmatively  as  he  read.  Then,  at  his  command, 
the  men  signed  the  paper,  one  after  the  other. 

Standing  in  a  row  they  raised  their  right  hands,  and  he 
asked  them  to  make  oath  that  the  paper  they  had  signed 
contained  the  words  of  Father  Leclair  as  spoken  that  day 

11  149 


from  the  pulpit  of  Attegat  parish.  Blais  attested  the 
oath  as  a  notary,  and  the  men  departed. 

Blais  affixed  the  stamp  to  the  envelope  with  a  vicious 
blow  of  his  fist. 

"I  hate  to  fight  a  priest — but  a  priest  must  not  get  in 
my  way  after  he  has  had  fair  warning,"  he  declared. 

"There's  no  question  in  your  mind,  then,  about  what  the 
bishop  will  do  when  he  gets  that  report?"  inquired  Roi. 

"Father  Leclair  will  be  snapped  out  of  this  parish  as 
quick  as  the  machinery  can  work.  I'm  on  the  inside  of 
the  thing.  The  bishop  has  already  warned  him.  I  saw 
to  it  that  the  bishop  had  full  information  about  his  previ 
ous  stand  on  this  school  matter.  It's  a  touchy  point  at 
headquarters  since  the  legislature  turned  down  the  appro 
priations  for  the  parochial  schools.  Roi,  I'm  a  bad  man 
to  tackle.  If  some  other  men  don't  keep  out  of  my  way 
I'll  show  'em  a  few  tricks  on  this  border." 

He  shoved  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets  and  strode 
about  the  room,  the  tails  of  his  frock-coat  "winging" 
behind  him.  "Damn  that  Aldrich!"  he  blurted. 

"We  seem  to  agree  almighty  well  in  our  partnership  to 
date,  Louis,"  observed  Roi,  malevolently.  "And  we're 
certainly  doing  business  together.  A  school-house  and  a 
priest  and  a  customs  sneak  were  between  me  and  the  girl 
I  propose  to  marry.  The  first  two  seem  to  be  out  of  the 
way  to  some  extent.  Get  busy  in  regard  to  the  last  one 
just  as  soon  as  you  can — and  call  on  me  for  help." 

"A  girl!"  sneered  Blais.  "I  supposed  you  had  more  of 
a  motive  in  this  proposition,  Dave.  You  always  have 
been  a  little  too  strong  on  the  girl  question." 

Roi  scowled. 

"You  want  to  take  into  account  who  the  girl  is.  Let 
me  tell  you,  Louis,  that  Evangeline  Beaulieu  is  worth 
more  as  a  prize  than  all  the  picayune  political  jobs  you 

150 


THE    SACRIFICE 

can  drag  down  for  yourself.  Did  you  ever  know  what  it 
was  to  want  a  girl  so  much  that  your  heart  ached  every 
time  you  thought  of  her,  and  you  couldn't  sleep  for 
thinking  of  her  and  longing  for  her?  Did  you  ever  want 
a  girl  so  much  that  when  you  saw  her  you  felt  as  though 
blood  was  running  out  of  your  eyes?  If  you  haven't  felt 
that  way,  don't  talk  to  me." 

"I  know  better  than  to  lose  my  head  in  any  such 
fashion." 

"By  the  gods,  if  you  have  never  lost  your  head  that 
way  you  don't  know  what  living  is,  you  ice-water  lawyer! 
I  never  have  found  a  girl  before  that  I  couldn't  have. 
Now,  there  isn't  another  girl  in  the  world  I  want  except 
this  one.  And  you  talk  to  me  of  not  having  enough  of  a 
motive!  Louis,  the  motive  that  puts  the  spur  to  me  in 
this  thing  is  the  motive  that  has  tipped  kingdoms  upside 
down.  The  rumor  has  gone  up  and  down  this  border 
that  Aldrich  has  cut  me  out.  I'd  go  out  now  and  hunt 
him  up  and  drop  him  if  I  had  a  way  planned  to  get  me 
out  of  the  scrape.  If  you're  the  right  kind  of  a  friend  and 
lawyer  you'll  tell  me  a  way." 

"  Don't  whip  a  willing  horse,  Roi.  The  thing  is  moving 
right  if  we  don't  rush  it.  Give  me  time." 

"But  you  are  giving  him  time.  He  is  courting  her. 
They  told  me  he  was  at  the  fire  with  her." 

"Oh,  come  outdoors  and  take  a  walk.  I  can  argue 
with  almost  any  one  except  a  man  in  love.  You'll  get 
her  when  the  time  comes  right,"  said  the  lawyer,  starting 
for  the  door. 

"I'll  get  her  even  if  the  priest  has  to  be  a  gun — one 
barrel  for  her  and  one  for  me,"  said  the  love-crazed  man. 
"I'll  take  her  in  my  arms  and  make  a  honeymoon  trip  to 
hell.  That's  the  way  I  feel,  Blais.  And  don't  try  any 
of  your  funny  jokes  on  a  man  with  my  disposition." 


THE    RED    LANE 

The  buckboards  were  rolling  away.  The  people  were 
scattering  to  their  homes.  They  were  not  shouting  to 
each  other  as  their  wont  had  been  in  times  past.  They 
who  rode  and  they  who  walked  went  their  ways  som 
berly.  No  one  had  helpful  or  hopeful  suggestion  for  the 
other.  Out  of  the  conference  before  the  church  had  come 
doubts,  hesitation,  more  fears.  The  talk  inside  the  church 
troubled  them  instead  of  convincing  them.  Their  good 
priest,  who  had  been  so  wise  in  their  interest  in  the  past, 
who  had  helped  the  poor  people  to  bear  their  burdens, 
now  faltered  advice  to  them  to  turn  the  other  cheek,  to 
obey  cruel  mandates. 

Blais,  walking  by  the  side  of  the  road,  waved  his  hand 
to  this  one  and  that.  He  shouted  brusque  advice  that 
they  hold  tight,  cheer  up,  remember  that  Acadians 
should  stand  together  for  Acadians!  The  men  nodded 
mournful  assent.  They  did  not  understand  very  well, 
but  here  seemed  to  be  one  who  was  full  of  courage  in 
their  behalf,  who  did  not  falter  advice  to  be  meek,  who 
was  bold  and  assertive;  and  they  felt  that  they  needed 
a  leader  who  was  bold. 

So  they  nodded  to  him,  and  some  smiled. 
!    At  one  place  in  the  street  the  rough  men  had  collected 
other  men  in  a  good-sized  group,  and  this  group  cheered 
Lawyer  Blais  when  he  passed. 

"The  campaign  is  well  under  way,  and  the  good  Father 
Leclair  will  not  be  here  to  boom  the  goat-whiskered 
Clifford,"  Blais  informed  his  companion,  with  satisfaction. 
"I  dropped  a  letter  into  the  post-office  just  now  as  I 
came  past,  and  if  I'm  any  judge  of  how  things  will  move, 
the  time-fuse  will  operate  in  about  three  days.  And 
that's  plenty  far  ahead  of  the  legislative  convention. 
Cheer  up,  Dave!  We  can  team  love  and  politics  in  a 
tandem  hitch — and  so  long  as  we  manage  to  get  there 

152 


THE    SACRIFICE 

I'll  make  love  the  wheel  horse  for  your  sake,  if  you  insist 
on  it.  There  are  slicker  ways  of  cutting  Aldrich  out  of 
this  thing  than  by  a  club  or  a  gun.  You  smugglers  have 
too  much  rough-and-tumble  about  you.  Leave  it  to 
me." 

Far  ahead  of  them  Pere  Leclair  trudged  down  the  dusty 
road  toward  the  little  stone  house.  He  was  bowed.  His 
face  was  care-worn.  His  worn  cassock  flapped  about  his 
legs,  and  he  was  a  pathetic  figure  of  a  little  shepherd  of  a 
flock  for  whom  he  had  sacrificed  all — and  who  did  not 
understand  the  sacrifice. 


xm 

HOW  VETAL  BEAULIEU  MADE   HIS  WILL 


AVE  ROI  rode  down  the  border  to  Beau- 
lien's  Place;  and  a  scowl  was  on  his  face, 
and  surly  resolve  was  in  his  heart. 

He  carried  news  to  Vetal  Beaulieu. 
He  told  the  publican  that  the  big  school 
in  Attegat  had  been  burned  to  the  ground. 
He  hinted  darkly  that  this  was  the  first  blow  in  a  fight 
in  which  the  hateful  Yankees  would  learn  something  of 
the  spirit  on  the  border.  He  drank  deeply  of  Vetal's  white 
rum,  and  then  he  was  freer  in  his  disclosures  and  threats: 
there  were  to  be  some  grand  happenings  in  the  north,  he 
declared.  In  Attegat  parish  would  the  storm-center  be. 
"And  where  is  your  girl,  where  is  Evangeline,  where 
is  my  promised  wife  in  all  this?  She  is  in  with  the  gang 
that's  against  us.  You  have  let  her  run  away  and  laugh 
at  you." 

Vetal  met  rage  with  surly  protest. 
"I  did  not  let  her  run  away.  It  was  to  teach  her  a 
lesson !  You  said  it  would  be  good  to  teach  her  a  lesson. 
You  said  it  when  she  left.  It  was  the  advice  of  a  fool, 
Dave  Roi.  I  went  to  bring  her  back,  and  I  was  one  man 
against  the  whole  settlement  of  Bois-de-Rancourt.  Don't 
you  blame  me!  They  took  the  word  of  the  Yankee  cus 
toms  sneak  and  the  word  of  the  fiddler  against  me — her 
father.  They  drove  me  away." 

"They  wouldn't  drive  you  away  now,"  stated  the  sul- 
154 


BEAULIEU    MAKES    HIS    WILL 

len  smuggler.  "They  have  found  out  about  the  Yankees 
since  then.  They  would  stand  up  for  a  girl  who  has 
deserted  her  own  people  and  is  helping  the  Yankees  to 
steal  our  boys  and  girls." 

He  went  on  savagely:  "A  fine  sight  it  is  nowadays  to 
see  the  girl  of  Vetal  Beaulieu  sitting  under  a  tree  teaching 
Acadian  girls  to  be  Yankees.  They  point  her  out  and 
grin  and  say:  'That  is  the  daughter  of  the  rich  Vetal 
Beaulieu  of  Monarda.'  Yes,  sitting  under  a  tree  since 
the  big  school  has  been  burned,  walking  in  the  fields  with 
out  a  roof  over  her  head,  helping  the  Yankees  to  keep  on 
in  their  dirty  work." 

"If  you  have  seen  her  there  why  did  you  not  bring 
her  away,  if  you  are  so  bold  and  so  proud  because  she  has 
been  promised  to  you?"  asked  Beaulieu. 

"That's  a  job  for  a  father  to  undertake.  I  have  come 
down  here  to  give  you  your  chance  to  undertake  it,"  cried 
Roi.  "So  come  along  with  me  and  get  your  daughter. 
She  must  come  away.  If  you  go  up  there  and  make  her 
come  there  will  be  no  scandal.  I  will  help  you.  If  you 
don't  come  I'll  do  it  alone,  Vetal,  scandal  or  no  scandal, 
for  I'm  going  to  have  her  and  have  her  now.  I'm  going 
to  have  her  even  if  I  lead  fifty  men  across  the  line  and 
fight  a  pitched  battle  to  get  her.  By  the  gods,  I  would 
have  brought  her  away  long  ago  if  it  had  not  been  for 
an  old  priest — but  that  old  priest  will  be  taken  care  of 
mighty  soon!" 

He  strode  about  the  big  room,  clapping  his  gloved  hands, 
inciting  the  gloomy  father  to  action. 

He  rang  changes  upon  the  spectacle  presented  by  the 
daughter  of  the  rich  Vetal  Beaulieu,  sitting  under  the 
open  sky,  disgracing  herself  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  by 
making  Yankees  out  of  Acadian  children.  Vetal  had 
listened  with  some  alarm  to  Roi's  predictions  of  bitter 


THE   RED   LANE 

trouble  in  the  north.  But  what  made  his  eyes  sparkle 
at  last  with  determination  was  this  insistent  harping  on 
Evangeline's  humiliation  of  herself  for  the  sake  of  their 
enemies. 

In  the  end  Vetal  Beaulieu  smote  his  fists  together  and 
roared  his  intention  to  assert  his  authority.  From  the 
broad  door  he  shouted  orders  to  his  stable  to  have  his 
horses  put  to  his  buckboard. 

"Ba  gar,"  he  declared.  "I  went  that  first  time  alone 
with  my  little  horse  to  find  my  girl  and  bring  her  to  her 
home.  For  I  was  ashamed.  It  was  bad  if  the  folks  of 
this  border  should  know  she  had  run  away.  I  was  going 
to  be  the  very  kind  father  to  her.  Yes,  I  went  alone  so 
that  she  could  not  be  shamed.  But  now  I  shall  make 
the  loud  noise.  I  shall  not  care  who  knows  that  Vetal 
Beaulieu  is  going  to  bring  home  his  daughter,  no  matter 
how  many  Yankees  stand  in  the  way.  She  shall  come  to 
my  house  and  be  an  Acadian  girl  who  must  obey  her 
father  and  marry  the  man  to  whom  she  has  been 
promised." 

Dave  Roi,  flushed  and  swaggering,  encouraged  this  new 
and  noisy  determination. 

Beaulieu  banged  the  windows  down  and  barred  them 
with  the  shutters.  He  double-locked  the  big  door.  He 
thrust  the  keys  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets  along  with 
jingling  coins  and  crumpled  bills.  He  patted  a  huge 
pistol,  and  hid  it  on  his  hip. 

When  the  two  sturdy  little  horses  were  harnessed  he 
took  his  place  in  state  on  the  rear  seat  of  the  wagon  and 
ordered  his  man  to  drive  on  to  the  north  country. 

Roi  cantered  ahead.  As  he  rode  he  wondered  how  he 
had  allowed  a  mere  girl  to  defy  him  so  long,  to  make  a 
fool  of  him,  for  he  knew  that  the  border  people  had  al 
ready  begun  to  gossip  about  the  manner  in  which  Vetal 


BEAULIEU    MAKES    HIS    WILL 

Beaulieu's  girl  had  thrown  over  the  rich  Dave  Roi  to  take 
up  with  a  mere  Yankee  who  rode  the  border  for  the  cus 
toms  service  of  his  country. 

But  in  this  new  exaltation  of  resolution  Dave  Roi  did 
not  forget  the  prudence  that  those  who  knew  him  well 
called  cowardice.  He  rode  north  by  the  route  on  the 
Canadian  side.  He  hurried  on,  but  kept  looking  behind 
to  assure  himself  that  Vetal  Beaulieu  was  at  his  heels. 
Those  same  persons  who  knew  Roi  well  might  have  said, 
had  they  known  of  his  journey  south  to  secure  the  ser 
vices  of  the  father,  that  Roi  was  not  actuated  solely  by 
his  desire  to  avoid  a  scandal — they  would  not  have  al 
lowed  this  compliment  to  his  sense  of  the  proprieties  where 
a  girl  was  concerned;  it  would  have  seemed  more  prob 
able  that  he  needed  Vetal  Beaulieu  for  a  task  which  he 
did  not  dare  to  undertake  himself. 

They  came  to  Felix  Cyr's  tavern  for  the  night. 

Cyr's  is  a  half-way  halting-place  for  all  travelers  in  that 
section.  It  squats  flatly  on  a  high,  domed  hill,  and  a 
solitary  Lombardy  poplar-tree  thrusts  itself  high  above 
the  eaves  at  one  corner  of  the  house ;  the  suggestion  of  the 
bare  poll  of  the  hill,  the  flat  house,  and  the  tree  is  of  a 
bald  head  surmounted  by  a  cap  with  a  feather  in  it. 

Many  persons  loafed  in  the  yard.  A  man  who  had 
eight  hounds  clustered  about  his  legs  argued  with  Felix 
Cyr  at  the  door  of  the  house,  appealed  for  admission, 
and  met  profane  refusal.  Felix  Cyr  had  hated  all  dogs 
for  many  years.  In  the  old  days,  when  Felix  was  a 
smuggler,  he  owned  a  fighting  bulldog,  and  once  upon  a 
time  he  rushed  across  the  boundary  to  rescue  his  pet  from 
the  jaws  of  a  dog  which  had  come  into  that  section  at  the 
heels  of  a  stranger.  The  stranger  was  a  United  States 
deputy  marshal  in  disguise,  and  he  had  a  warrant  for  the 
arrest  of  Cyr,  and  had  brought  along  an  able  fighting 

iS7 


THE   RED   LANE 

dog  in  order  to  cajole  the  smuggler  upon  Yankee  terri 
tory. 

The  threat  of  the  man  with  the  hounds  that  half  of 
them  were  "yappers"  and  half  were  "howlers,"  and  that 
he  would  post  them  near  the  house  and  stir  them  to  make 
a  whole  night's  riot,  did  not  impress  Cyr.  He  kicked  one 
of  the  dogs  and  shook  his  fist  in  the  man's  face.  But  he  had 
a  hand-clasp  for  Vetal  Beaulieu  and  gruff  greeting  for  Roi. 

"There  are  men  who  are  waiting  for  you,"  he  informed 
the  smuggler.  He  twitched  his  shaggy  brows  to  indicate 
that  they  were  within. 

A  half-dozen  men  were  loitering  in  the  main  room  of 
the  tavern.  Vetal  knew  most  of  them,  for  he  had  had 
abundant  opportunity  for  making  acquaintances  along 
the  border.  One  was  the  hard-faced  son  of  Blaze 
Condon.  One  he  knew  as  Zealor  Whynot,  who  made  a 
business  of  smuggling  liquor  into  prohibition  sections, 
and  wore  a  tin  tank  fitted  to  his  body  under  his  coat,  like 
a  corselet. 

"I  sent  word  to  a  few  of  the  boys  to  meet  us  here," 
Roi  informed  Beaulieu.  "We'll  take  'em  along  north 
with  us.  If  there's  anybody  who  is  interested  in  making 
a  scrap  out  of  this,  my  boys  will  come  in  handy." 

Beaulieu  bridled  a  bit. 

"You  take  my  business  and  run  it  for  me,  eh?" 

"You  have  shown  that  you  need  a  manager — and  the 
girl  needs  one,  too.  There  isn't  going  to  be  any  more 
fooling  about  this  thing." 

One  person  in  the  room  was  not  of  the  group  of  Roi's 
men.  Vetal  saw  him  and  seemed  to  lose  interest  prompt 
ly  in  the  recruits.  He  strode  across  and  shook  his  finger 
under  the  man's  nose. 

"Why  don't  you  come  when  you  agree  and  pay  the 
money,  eh?" 

158 


BEAULIEU    MAKES    HIS    WILL 

The  man  mumbled  a  reply,  darting  furtive  side  glances 
of  shame  at  the  listeners.  He  rubbed  his  palms  nervously 
on  his  patched  knees. 

"You  may  as  well  talk  loud  when  you  tell  me  another 
lie  about  why  you  do  not  come  and  pay,"  shouted  Vetal. 
"These  men,  maybe,  would  like  to  learn  lies  about  how 
not  to  pay." 

"I  haven't  lied;  I  have  told  the  truth  to  you.  I 
haven't  the  money  to  pay.  That's  the  truth.  I  have 
worked  hard.  The  money  has  come  slow." 

"Ah,  if  you  swallow  a  straight  nail  you  will  cough  it 
up  turned  into  a  corkscrew!  No  straight  truth  comes 
out  of  you.  You  have  had  the  last  warning.  I  shall 
come  and  take  the  horses — I  shall  take  the  cows." 

The  man  was  pricked  into  rebellion  by  this  attack  be 
fore  them  all. 

"If  you  take  my  horses  I  cannot  earn  money  to  pay 
you.  If  you  take  my  cows  my  children  will  starve." 

"I  shall  come  and  take  them." 

The  man  leaped  to  his  feet.  He  had  cowered  at  first, 
a  shrinking  debtor  before  an  accusing  creditor.  His 
shame  became  the  sudden  anger  of  a  weak  nature. 

"I  have  already  paid  you  two  dollars  for  every  dollar 
I  borrowed.  And  I  still  owe  you  more  than  you  gave  me 
in  the  first  place.  I  have  been  a  slave  to  you.  I  have 
worked  hard.  My  wife  and  my  children  have  been  with 
out  the  things  they  need  so  that  you  might  have.  It  is 
not  right." 

"You  borrowed — you  came  and  begged  for  the  money 
and  agreed  to  the  interest.  I  did  not  hunt  you  up  and 
force  the  money  into  your  hands." 

"  I  borrowed  to  send  to  the  big  city  for  a  doctor  to  make 
my  poor  wife  well  when  she  was  dying,"  declared  the  man, 
passionately.  He  was  appealing  to  them  all  now — seeking 


THE    RED    LANE 

to  justify  this  debt  concerning  which  he  had  been  so  in 
solently  taunted.  "It's  only  what  a  man  would  do. 
He  would  not  fight  about  interest  rates  then.  He  would 
save  his  poor  wife.  I  have  tried  to  do  right.  But  the 
man  who  takes  advantage  of  suffering  and  sorrow,  that 
is  the  man  who  ought  to  be  ashamed.  I  have  paid  you 
over  and  over." 

"And  now  propose  to  whine  and  sneak  out  of  the  rest 
of  the  debt,  eh?" 

"No,  but  I  ask  for  time.  I  am  a  slave  to  you;  but  a 
slave  must  have  time." 

"I  shall  come  and  take  the  horses  and  the  cows." 

"They  are  taking  the  lands  away  from  the  settlers 
across  in  the  Yankee  country,"  cried  the  debtor.  "But 
that  is  not  so  wicked  as  what  you  are  doing  to  me — what 
you  have  been  doing  on  this  border  for  years.  I  am  going 
to  say  it  out!  You  have  made  yourself  rich  out  of  drunk 
ards,  and  have  taken  the  money  which  ought  to  have 
gone  to  women  and  children.  But  even  that  is  not  as 
bad  as  piling  up  more  riches  by  taking  advantage  of 
sickness  and  distress  and  making  a  man  a  slave  to 
you." 

"  I  lend  my  good  money.  I  have  lent  money  for  years  to 
men  who  come  and  beg  for  it.  I  do  not  ask  them  to  bor 
row.  And  all  the  men  who  borrow  come  back  like  you 
and  make  hard  talk  to  me.  I  get  no  thanks.  So  my  good 
disposition  has  been  spoiled.  I  get  nothing  but  blame 
because  I  have  been  good  to  men.  If  I  should  give  away 
my  good  money — toss  it  out  with  both  hands — I  should 
still  be  blamed.  So  I  shall  make  men  pay  me." 

Roi  had  been  listening  cynically;  the  others  without 
special  interest.  The  attitude  of  Vetal  Beaulieu  toward 
his  debtors  was  well  understood  on  the  border.  And  his 
rates  of  interest  and  the  numbers  of  the  slaves  who  paid 

1 60 


BEAULIEU   MAKES    HIS    WILL 

tribute  to  him  without  hope  of  extricating  themselves 
were  also  well  known. 

The  man  realized  that  he  had  not  elicited  sympathy 
from  the  money-lender  or  from  the  bystanders.  His 
fires  of  revolt  soon  cooled.  He  fumbled  in  his  pockets 
and  found  a  tattered  bill  or  so  and  some  coins. 

"It  is  all  I  have,"  he  declared,  humbly.  "I  am  on 
my  way  with  my  horses  to  work  on  the  new  road  through 
Mellicite  forest.  My  wife  and  the  children  have  only  the 
milk  of  the  cows  until  I  come  home.  Then  I  will  pay 
with  my  earnings." 

"How  much  do  you  have  there?"  asked  the  lender. 

"Two  dollars  and  forty  cents." 

"And  now  you  owe  on  the  interest  almost  ten  times 
that!  Ah,  no!  I  shall  take  the  horses  and  the  cows. 
I  cannot  wait  any  longer.  You  do  not  intend  to  pay. 
You  have  given  me  hard  words  before  listeners." 

His  eyes  glittered  angrily  as  he  spoke,  and  his  mien 
was  unrelenting. 

"There  are  men  on  this  border  who  will  give  you  some 
thing  more  than  words,  you  man  who  will  take  the  food 
from  poor  children!  You  will  go  too  far  with  fathers 
who  see  families  suffer  because  your  heart  is  hard.  I  do 
not  threaten  you.  I  believe  in  God,  and  I  try  to  do  my 
duty,"  cried  the  man,  his  voice  breaking.  "But  there 
are  men  who  will  forget  God  when  they  see  their  children 
starve  on  account  of  you.  I  warn  you,  Vetal  Beaulieu!" 

It  was  passionate  prophecy,  but  the  usurer  wrinkled 
his  nose  and  sneered. 

There  were  audible  indications  outside  that  the  man 
with  the  hounds  was  making  good  his  threat  to  Cyr. 
Staccato  yelps  and  mournful  howls  nearly  drowned  the 
quavering  accents  of  the  debtor. 

"All  those  who  bark  at  my  heels,  bah!  I  think  only 

161 


THE    RED    LANE 

as  much  of  them  as  I  do  of  what  is  outside  there,"  de 
clared  Vetal,  snapping  his  finger  scornfully  at  the  window. 
"I  shall  take  the  horses  and  the  cows." 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  man,  for  Roi  had  thrust  an 
elbow  into  his  side.  A  new  arrival  had  just  come  hurrying 
into  the  room.  This  man  was  distinctly  of  importance, 
Vetal  Beaulieu  decided.  He  wore  a  frock-coat  and  swag 
gered.  He  and  Roi  exchanged  looks. 

"A  room,  Felix!"  commanded  the  smuggler.  "Quick 
with  you!  Bring  us  something  to  eat.  M'ser  Beaulieu 
and  I  are  tired  of  standing  here  where  loafers  can  insult 
us." 

The  frock-coated  stranger  came  later  to  the  room  to 
which  the  landlord  had  escorted  his  guests.  He  was  in 
troduced  to  Vetal. 

"He  is  my  closest  friend,"  explained  Roi.  "He  is  to 
be  the  big  man  of  all  Attegat  from  now  on.  He  is  to  go 
to  the  corps  legislative,  Vetal.  We  shall  get  some  new 
laws  and  some  rights  for  the  Acadians.  This  is  Attorney 
Louis  Blais,  and  he  is  not  so  busy  about  his  own  great 
business  but  what  he  can  help  you  and  me.  So  I  have 
sent  for  him  to  come  here  to  join  us,  for  it  is  well  to 
decide  on  some  things  before  we  show  ourselves  in 
Attegat." 

And  then  Louis  Blais  sat  down  with  them  and  talked 
much  while  he  ate  of  the  food  Felix  Cyr  sent  by  the  hands 
of  one  of  the  maids. 

While  they  ate,  a  fiddle  was  tuned  under  the  window, 
and  soon  jolly  strains  began.  By  the  sound  they  knew 
that  all  the  travelers  who  were  housed  at  Cyr's  that  night 
had  joined  the  group  about  the  musician.  The  twilight 
was  down,  and  the  men  in  the  room  up-stairs  did  not  try 
to  see  who  this  fiddler  was.  They  were  talking  of  grave 
matters. 

162 


BEAULIEU    MAKES    HIS    WILL 

"It  is  Fiddler  Billedeau,"  explained  the  maid,  who 
came  to  carry  away  the  dishes.  "  It  is  very  jolly  when  he 
happens  here."  . 

Vetal's  face  showed  prompt  and  black  anger.  He 
rushed  to  the  window. 

"Go — pass  on,  you  thief  of  young  girls!  Leave  here, 
you  vagabond  scoundrel,  who  go  about  defying  fathers!" 
he  blustered,  in  the  French  tongue.  In  his  rage  he  took 
no  account  of  what  the  listeners  might  think.  "I  have 
put  my  mark  on  your  face  once.  I  will  come  down  there 
and  do  it  again." 

The  fiddle  ceased.  After  a  moment  of  silence  Bille 
deau  replied: 

"Is  it  you,  M'ser  Vetal  Beaulieu?" 

"You  know  very  well  who  it  is — your  guilty  conscience 
tells  you,  loafing  pig  of  a  fiddler.  Go  on  your  way,  and 
don't  disturb  gentlemen  who  have  business." 

"Here  are  gentlemen  down  here  who  have  no  business, 
but  who  are  ready  for  a  little  fun,"  interposed  a  voice, 
the  voice  of  one  of  the  guests.  "Yes,  go  on,  Billedeau. 
Go  on  with  your  fiddle!  As  for  you  above — keep  still!" 

"I  obey  my  good  friends,"  said  the  old  fiddler,  mildly. 
"When  they  ask  me  to  play  for  them  it  is  my  duty  to 
play,  because  my  good  friends  smooth  my  path  through 
life  for  me.  Bo'  soir,  M'ser  Beaulieu.  I  shall  play." 

The  fiddle  went  gaily  on. 

"Let  the  fiddler  play.  Don't  make  more  enemies  only 
for  the  sake  of  hearing  yourself  talk,  Vetal,"  counseled 
Roi,  impatiently.  "You  have  enemies  enough.  Some 
one  will  take  a  pop  at  you  one  of  these  days'" 

Beaulieu  came  growling  back  to  the  table.  He  drove 
his  fist  upon  it.  He  was  too  angry  to  think  clearly  or 
reason  justly. 

"They  all  sneer  behind  my  back,  those  who  do  not 

163 


THE    RED    LANE 

borrow,  and  those  who  borrow  talk  hard  to  my  face  when 
I  ask  them  for  what  belongs  to  me!  And  my  girl,  after  I 
have  worked  all  the  years  for  her,  does  both — she  talks 
hard  to  my  face  and  sneers  behind  my  back  about  the 
money  I  have  earned.  So  she  is  the  worst  of  all."  He 
pointed  quivering  finger  at  the  floor.  "And  down  there 
is  a  man  who  says  that  Vetal  Beaulieu  will  soon  get 
something  else  than  hard  words !  They  would  like  to  see 
me  die,  eh?  Then  they  all  would  come  and  laugh  hard 
over  my  grave,  and  my  girl  would  give  my  money  to  the 
priests  and  the  sneaking  Yankees!  You  are  a  notary,  eh? 
If  you  have  some  paper  you  write,  M'ser  Blais.  Write 
now." 

The  lawyer  stared,  but  obeyed  Vetal's  insistence.  He 
found  a  blank  sheet  in  his  pocket  and  uncorked  his  foun 
tain-pen. 

"I  do  not  give  you  the  words — I  give  you  the  sense. 
You  know  the  law  words.  Write  it  on  the  paper  in  the 
law  words  that  if  I  die  all  my  money  goes  to  Dave  Roi,  if 
he  has  married  my  girl;  and  then  my  girl  will  not  have 
any  money  unless  she  marries  him.  Write  it  that  he  must 
marry  her  within  the  year  after  I  die,  or  else  he  must  lose 
all  the  money!  Ah,  that  will  make  you  hurry  some,  eh, 
Dave  Roi?  It  will  make  you  hurry  twice  as  fast  as  love 
will  make  you  hurry,  eh?"  he  shouted,  turning  convulsed 
face  to  the  astonished  smuggler. 

"Seeing  that  both  parties  will  have  such  strong  induce 
ments  to  marry,"  remarked  the  lawyer,  urbanely  pro 
fessional,  "the  will  ought  to  start  the  wedding-bells  to 
ringing.  But  in  case  of — of  an  accident — any  unforeseen 
contingency,  where  will  you  have  the  money  go  then, 
Beaulieu?" 

"To  hell!"  raved  the  frantic  publican.  "If  my  girl 
is  a  fool  and  Dave  Roi  is  so  much  of  a  coward  that  he 

164 


BEAULIEU    MAKES    HIS    WILL 

will  not  get  her,  I  want  that  money  to  go  where  it  is  the 
worst  place  to  have  money  go!" 

He  stamped  around  the  table  as  he  stamped  about  his 
loaded  truck  in  his  moments  of  passion.  He  jingled  the 
coins  in  his  pockets. 

The  fiddle  outside  was  singing  plaintively.  The  tune 
was  one  of  the  chansons  of  the  old  country. 

"I'm  afraid  the  bequest  must  be  made  a  bit  more 
definite,"  suggested  Blais,  breaking  the  silence  of  the 
room. 

Vetal  paused  in  his  march  and  drove  furious  gesture 
at  the  open  window.  The  fiddle  sang  on. 

"If  a  fool  and  a  coward  lose  my  money  it  shall  go  to 
some  place  that  is  hateful — it  shall  be  wasted — it  shall 
be  thrown  about  the  world  by  a  loafer,  a  vagabond — it 
shall  go  to  that  old  idiot  who  fiddles  his  way  through  life 
— it  shall  go  to  Anaxagoras  Billedeau.  Put  his  name  into 
the  will,"  he  cried,  wildly.  "If  it  can't  go  to  the  devil 
himself,  let  it  go  to  Anaxagoras  Billedeau — and  I  spit 
on  every  dollar  of  it." 

He  resumed  his  march,  unconsciously  keeping  time  to 
the  fiddle's  strains. 

The  attorney  shot  a  look  at  the  smuggler  in  which 
doubt,  inquiry,  and  hesitation  were  mingled. 

"Write  it  as  he  wants  it,"  directed  Roi,  "and  make  it 
as  strong  as  you  can.  It  suits  me,  for  I'm  going  to  have 
the  girl.  I  have  stopped  fooling  where  she's  concerned." 

So  the  lawyer  wrote  while  the  fiddle  played  outside. 
In  the  room  the  only  sounds  were  the  scratching  of  the 
hurrying  pen  and  the  stertorous  breathings  of  Vetal 
Beaulieu,  his  anger  boiling  within  him  and  seeming  to 
steam  through  his  nostrils. 

When  the  document  was  finished  Roi  went  out  of  the 
room  and  called  to  the  waiting  men  below-stairs. 

12  l65 


THE    RED    LANE 

"This  is  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Vetal  Beaulieu," 
explained  the  lawyer,  when  Condon,  Whynot,  and  the 
others  had  filed  in.  "Not  that  M'ser  Beaulieu  has  any 
intention  of  dying  right  away,  but  he  feels  that  he  ought 
to  prepare  his  affairs  as  a  business  man."  He  thus  an 
swered  the  astonished  queries  in  their  eyes.  "You  are 
called  up  here  to  sign  as  witnesses.  We  may  as  well  have 
all  of  you  on  the  paper." 

One  by  one  they  came  to  the  table  and  signed,  each 
writing  slowly  and  peering  at  the  document,  trying  to  get 
a  hint  as  to  its  provisions.  But  Roi  hurried  them,  and 
they  obeyed  his  nod  toward  the  door  and  went  out. 

"Now  to  go  back  to  what  we  were  talking  about, 
Vetal,"  said  the  smuggler.  "We've  agreed,  eh,  that  it's 
no  use  to  argue  with  Evangeline?  She  isn't  a  girl  who 
can  be  argued  with." 

The  memory  of  that  night  in  Monarda  clearing  came 
back  to  Beaulieu.  He  could  see  her  as  she  stood  before 
him,  her  soul  dominating  him  through  the  windows  of 
those  flashing  eyes,  abasing  him,  frightening  him. 

"She  is  not  like  the  Acadian  girls  who  obey — she  talked 
to  me — "  He  began  to  wail,  but  Roi  checked  him, 
brusquely. 

"I  say  she  is  not  to  be  argued  with.  She  wants  to 
have  every  one  else  do  exactly  as  she  says.  She  has  fool 
ish  notions.  She  lived  all  her  life  in  a  convent,  and  needs 
a  little  practical  experience  She  will  settle  down  after 
she  gets  married.  So  her  father  and  I  have  decided  that 
she  had  better  get  married,  Louis." 

Roi  understood  the  mercurial  temperament  of  Vetal. 
The  man  needed  the  constant  impetus  of  a  stronger  will, 
the  support  of  plausible  excuse  for  action  in  this  diffi 
cult  matter  which  had  faced  him  in  his  family.  It  was 
plain  that  Roi  was  now  talking  more  for  the  strengthen- 

166 


BEAULIEU    MAKES    HIS    WILL 

ing  of  Vetal's  resolve  than  for  the  enlightenment  of  the 
lawyer.  A  sympathetic  droop  of  the  attorney's  eyelid 
testified  his  understanding. 

"I  was  perfectly  willing  to  go  about  this  marriage  in 
the  usual  way — banns,  a  parade  up  the  center  aisle,  and 
all  the  rest !  But  no,  she  stood  out  against  her  father  and 
myself  and  ran  away  to  be  foolish  along  with  the  Yankees. 
So  her  father  and  I  have  decided  that  if  it  isn't  to  be  a 
church  wedding  it  shall  be  a  civil  affair,  and  that  you 
shall  marry  us,  Louis.  She  has  been  promised  to  me — 
her  father  has  come  along  to  see  her  married,  all  due 
and  proper,  and  under  those  circumstances  we'd  like  to 
know  whose  business  it  will  be  if  we  do  get  married?" 

"It  is  not  a  good  place  for  any  girl  where  she  is  now," 
Blais  informed  the  father.  "It  is  especially  bad  for  an 
Acadian  girl.  After  she  is  married  and  settled  nicely 
with  her  husband  she  will  be  glad  that  you  came  to 
assert  your  authority.  In  the  end  it  will  come  out  all 
right." 

"Those  who  witnessed  the  will  shall  witness  the  wed 
ding,"  stated  Roi,  grimly.  "And  the  wedding  is  set  for 
to-morrow  night.  I  hope  there  are  no  fools  in  Attegat 
who  will  forget  themselves  and  fall  under  the  feet  of  the 
wedding  party." 

"They  will  not  laugh  at  me  behind  my  back  after  to 
morrow  night,"  declaimed  Vetal.  "I  shall  show  this 
border  that  I  can  run  my  own  family." 

From  a  distance  came  the  lugubrious  wailing  of  hounds. 
It  was  low,  mournful  ululation.  To  a  superstitious 
mind  it  carried  sinister  portent;  even  the  wise  have 
found  ominous  meaning  in  that  mysterious  note  in  a 
dog's  howl.  Blais  folded  the  will,  placed  it  in  an  en 
velope,  and  sealed  it.  Vetal's  hand  trembled  when  he 
took  the  document. 

167 


THE    RED    LANE 

"That  is  not  a  good  sound  for  a  Beaulieu  to  hear,"  he 
muttered.  "It  means  bad  things." 

"Folks  will  laugh  at  you  behind  your  back  and  to  your 
face,  too,  if  they  ever  find  out  that  a  plain  hound  dog 
backed  you  down,"  sneered  Roi.  "What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  that  paper?" 

Vetal  wrinkled  his  brow  and  pondered. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  at  last,  "I'll  give  it  to  Felix  Cyr. 
He  has  a  safe.  He  shall  put  it  there.  I  do  not  like  that 
sound.  It  is  not  good  to  hear.  My  grandfather  told 
me  it  is  not  a  good  sound  for  the  Beaulieus." 

He  trudged  out  of  the  room  with  his  head  down. 


XIV 

THE  TRIALS   OF  A  KNIGHT-ERRANT 

N  the  slope  of  the  long  hill  above  the 
Temiscouata  portage  Norman  Aldrich, 
walking  his  horse  under  the  fluttering 
beech-trees — for  the  afternoon  was  hot — 
met  a  curious  procession.  A  tall,  gaunt 
man  stalked  along,  his  head  bent  gloomily. 
At  his  heels  in  single  file  trailed  seven  hounds,  who  were 
as  gaunt  as  he,  and,  with  their  sagging  jowls  and  their 
pendulous  ears,  presented  an  aspect  twice  as  melancholy. 
Their  tails  hung  listlessly,  and  their  tongues  sweated  hot 
drops  upon  the  dusty  highway. 

"Dave  Roi  killed  one — there  were  eight  yesterday," 
stated  the  gloomy  man.  He  halted  when  he  came  up  to 
the  officer,  and  he  began  without  preface.  "They  were 
eight  of  the  best  hounds  that  ever  snuffed  a  trail.  Four 
of  them  yappers — four  of  them  howlers.  He  killed  the 
best  howler  because  he  howled  under  the  window — and 
he  had  reason  to  howl,  for  Bullhead  Cyr  wouldn't  open  his 
tavern  to  us.  I  told  them  to  howl — and  Dave  Roi  killed 
one.  And  that  will  make  it  bad  for  Dave  Roi  some  day." 
He  pulled  a  man's  glove  from  his  coat  pocket  and  shook 
it  above  his  head.  Aldrich  had  heard  stories  of  this 
rover  of  the  border,  this  man  of  the  eight  dogs,  a  harm 
less  nomad  whose  dementia  kept  him  restlessly  on  the 
march  through  the  country-side. 

169 


THE    RED    LANE 

"That  is  Dave  Roi's  glove.  They  can  take  a  scent 
from  that  glove  and  follow  it  through  Gomorrah,  across 
the  brimstone  fires.  Some  day  he  will  be  sorry  because 
he  killed  that  hound." 

He  plodded  on,  and  the  dogs  plodded  as  dolefully  as 
he.  He  had  begun  without  preface;  he  ended  without 
further  explanation. 

Aldrich  stared  after  the  procession  with  some  interest. 
The  name  of  Roi  had  added  to  his  interest.  But  he  did 
not  speak  to  the  man.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  he 
could  say. 

He  walked  his  horse  on  down  the  slope. 

Far  ahead  of  him,  where  the  highway  turned  abruptly 
over  the  opposite  hill,  he  could  see  the  iron  post  which 
marked  the  boundary  between  the  countries. 

Another  man  was  marching  along  the  road  toward  him, 
leading  a  saddled  horse.  This  person  was  alone.  When 
he  came  opposite,  Aldrich  whirled  his  horse  sharply  into 
the  highway,  and,  leaning  down,  rapped  the  man's  breast 
with  the  handle  of  his  riding-whip. 

The  man  yelped  angrily. 

"Ah,  you  are  not  rigged  up  with  your  tin  waistcoat 
to-day,  Mr.  Whynot,"  said  the  officer.  "I  scarcely  ex 
pected  you  would  be  wearing  it  across  the  line  in  broad 
daylight,  but  I  thought  I'd  make  sure." 

"I  do  not  do  all  the  things  the  liars  and  the  sneaks 
along  this  border  say  I  do,"  retorted  Whynot,  insolently. 
"You  have  no  right  to  meddle  with  a  man  who  is  travel 
ing  along  this  road  minding  his  own  business." 

"  I  have  a  right  to  examine  any  man — especially  a  man 
who  makes  a  business  of  smuggling." 

"Why  don't  you  go  where  they  are  really  smuggling? 
Why  aren't  you  up  where  the  Red  Lane  is  open  for  to 
night?  Afraid  to  be  there,  I  suppose.  Rather  stay  down 

170 


TRIALS    OF   A    KNIGHT-ERRANT 

here  where  it  is  all  safe — holding  up  innocent  men  who 
are  going  about  their  own  affairs,  eh?" 

"You  are  giving  me  a  tip,  are  you,  Mr.  Whynot?"  in 
quired  Aldrich,  with  sarcastic  inflection.  "I'm  much 
obliged." 

"No,  it  isn't  a  tip.  I'm  not  telling  you  where  the  Red 
Lane  is.  But  I  know  it  isn't  here.  Be  a  coward  and 
stay  here,  if  you  want  to.  It's  a  perfectly  safe  place." 

"Don't  try  that  talk  on  me,"  cried  the  officer,  angrily. 
"I'm  no  child.  Your  boss  Roi's  wild-goose  chases  haven't 
fooled  me  yet." 

"You  play  the  lone-hand  game,  tumble  in  by  accident, 
and  then  tumble  out  again,"  sneered  Whynot.  "Let's 
see!  I  believe  you  were  the  chap  who  reviewed  a  pro 
cession  of  three  thousand  sheep  down  Monarda  way  a  few 
weeks  ago!  Seeing  that  you  were  there  on  the  job  you 
might  be  able  to  tell  me  how  much  duty  you  collected 
on  those  sheep." 

Aldrich  got  his  temper  under  control.  He  did  not 
show  that  the  taunt  stung  him. 

"That's  an  unsettled  account,  Mr.  Whynot.  Even 
the  best  concern  lets  some  of  its  bills  run  awhile.  The 
collection  will  be  attended  to  in  good  time.  The  United 
States  government  has  a  way  of  getting  what  belongs  to 
it — including  men." 

He  started  his  horse  along.  His  cheeks  were  flushed 
a  bit  under  the  tan.  He  felt  a  touch  of  shame  when  he 
realized  that  he  was  bandying  retorts  with  this  rogue  of 
the  border. 

"You'd  better  go  north  where  the  real  business  is  on 
to-night,"  the  man  called  after  him.  "This  time  you  are 
getting  it  straight.  I'm  giving  you  the  right  tip  be 
cause  I  want  to  see  you  get  into  some  real  trouble. 
See?" 

171 


THE    RED    LANE 

"Don't  be  silly,  Whynot,"  replied  Aldrich,  not  turning 
his  head.  He  spurred  and  rode  out  of  earshot. 

"Well,  I  can  tell  Roi  that  I've  got  that  particular  pole 
cat  located,"  muttered  Whynot,  trudging  on  through  the 
dust. 

He  turned  after  a  time  and  stood  watching  the  officer's 
progress  down  the  hill.  The  horse  was  walking  once  more. 

"After  what  I've  said  he'll  stay  out  of  the  village  and 
watch  this  road,  here,  if  he  watches  anywhere,"  the  spy 
decided.  "Roi  has  him  sized  all  right.  The  minute  he 
saw  me  he  knew  I  was  doing  skirmish  duty.  Oh  yes,  he'll 
stay  out." 

After  arriving  at  that  satisfying  conclusion  Mr.  Whynot 
hurried  on,  and  at  the  top  of  the  slope  he  mounted  and 
cantered  away. 

Anaxagoras  Billedeau,  fiddling  softly  as  his  old  horse 
plodded,  smiled  up  into  the  officer's  face  when  Aldrich 
met  him  at  the  foot  of  the  slope. 

"I  think  I'd  rather  have  my  fiddle  than  yours,  Monsieur 
of  the  Customs,"  said  Billedeau,  by  way  of  a  jest.  He 
pointed  to  the  rifle  which  Aldrich  carried  across  his 
shoulder.  "It's  not  a  merry  tune  one  plays  on  your  kind 
of  a  fiddle." 

"It's  a  tune  only  the  wicked  will  dance  to,"  returned 
the  young  man,  with  a  smile.  "But  let  us  hope  I'll  not 
be  called  on  to  play  the  tune." 

The  old  fiddler  regarded  him  shrewdly. 

"  It  is  not  to  my  taste  to  be  an  informer,  M'ser  Aldrich," 
he  said,  at  last.  "I  have  tried  to  keep  out  of  the  sad 
wickedness  of  the  border.  But  I  feel  to  tell  you  that  Dave 
Roi  stopped  last  night  at  Felix  Cyr's  tavern,  and  there 
were  bad  men  of  his  gang  with  him.  I  do  not  know  what 
Dave  Roi  plans  to  do.  But  I  never  knew  him  to  do  any 
good.  So  I  warn  you,  M'ser  of  the  Customs.  The  hawks 

172 


TRIALS    OF   A    KNIGHT-ERRANT 

t 

flocked  last  night  for  some  purpose.  I  warn  you  because 
I  know  of  some  one  whose  heart  would  be  broken  if  any 
harm  comes  to  you." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  the  officer. 

"Perhaps  I  take  the  liberty!" 

"You  do  not,  Monsieur  Billedeau.  You  are  a  good 
friend.  You  have  done  much  to  show  that  friendship. 
Evangeline  loves  you.  I  respect  you.  Both  of  us  are 
grateful  to  you." 

"With  Dave  Roi  last  night  was  Vetal  Beaulieu — Vetal 
Beaulieu  full  of  anger  and  violent  words.  With  the  two 
of  them  was  young  Attorney  Blais,  of  Attegat — and  they 
all  talked  long  in  a  room  by  themselves.  I  do  not  know 
of  what  they  talked.  I  did  not  spy.  It  may  have  been 
of  smuggling." 

"Yes,  it  may  have  been  of  smuggling,"  admitted  Al- 
drich,  sudden  apprehensiveness  wrinkling  his  forehead. 

"It  may  have  been  of  something  worse,  Monsieur 
Officer.  Perhaps  Vetal  Beaulieu  would  not  come  into 
the  north  to  smuggle.  I  have  been  thinking  so  as  I  have 
ridden  along  to-day."  He  put  up  his  hand  and  ticked 
off  the  three  stubbed  fingers  which  he  extended.  "Dave 
Roi,  Vetal  Beaulieu,  Attorney  Blais!  I  have  been  think 
ing  much.  This  morning  Roi  sent  his  men  away.  The 
men  have  come  across  the  line  by  different  roads.  Ahead 
of  me  by  this  road  came  Zealor  Whynot.  It  does  not 
look  like  smuggling.  I  have  not  a  wise  head  for  plots. 
I  do  nothing  except  fiddle  for  the  poor  folks.  I  am  glad 
I  have  seen  you  to  tell  you  of  these  things.  You  may 
understand." 

While  Billedeau  had  been  talking  the  young  man  had 
been  staring  at  him,  perplexity  in  his  face.  This  news 
sounded  ominous.  This  conjunction  of  individuals  at 
Cyr's  place,  within  reaching  distance  of  Attegat,  had  a 

173 


THE    RED    LANE 

sinister  significance  which  oppressed  him  more  and  more 
as  he  pondered. 

"Where  are  Beaulieu  and  Roi?"  he  asked. 

"They  were  still  at  Cyr's  when  I  came  away.  They 
have  horses  and  a  buckboard.  Roi's  men  went,  one  by 
one,  along  the  different  roads." 

The  fiddler  had  delivered  the  little  stock  of  his  infor 
mation.  He  picked  up  the  reins.  He  eyed  Aldrich  wist 
fully  as  though  he  hoped  the  officer's  superior  knowledge 
of  the  ways  of  guile  could  translate  what  had  been  told 
him. 

"I  shall  set  my  mind  upon  what  you  have  said,  M'ser 
Billedeau.  It  means  something — this  meeting  at  Cyr's. 
We  shall  find  out  what  it  means." 

Billedeau  hesitated,  displaying  the  reluctance  of  one 
who  fears  that  his  interest  may  become  presumption.  He 
had  heard  Evangeline  Beaulieu's  story  of  the  persecution 
of  her  by  David  Roi ;  he  had  heard  the  passionate  declara 
tion  of  Norman  Aldrich's  love  in  the  clearing  of  Bois-de- 
Rancourt.  His  understanding  of  the  situation  spurred 
him  to  speak. 

"There  is  some  business  Dave  Roi  and  Vetal  Beaulieu 
have  together  in  these  days.  It  is  not  smuggling.  I 
think  you  know  what  that  business  is,  M'ser." 

"I  understand,"  acknowledged  the  young  man,  bitterly. 

"I  know  the  sad  things  along  the  border  as  well  as 
the  jolly  things.  I  live  among  the  people  in  their  homes 
— and  I  know!  I  do  not  tell  the  stories  of  the  sad  things 
as  I  ride  along,  Monsieur  of  the  Customs,  for  that  would 
be  to  spread  the  scandals.  This  thing,  though,  I  do  tell 
you.  Love  for  a  girl  can  make  a  young  man  strong. 
Hatred  of  a  rival  can  double  his  strength.  But  when  he 
loves  the  girl  and  hates  the  rival,  and  then  knows  that 
the  rival  is  a  renegade  who  is  bringing  to  her  shame  and 

174 


TRIALS   OF   A    KNIGHT-ERRANT 

misery,  then  that  young  man  may  fight  for  her  like  ten 
men.  So  I  must  tell  you  what  I  tell  you." 

The  eyes  of  the  old  fiddler  blazed  under  the  tufted 
gray  brows. 

"Away  over  in  the  Codiac  settlement  there  is  a  girl  of 
the  Macpherson  family,  and  Dave  Roi  took  her  for  his 
wife  by  word  of  mouth  before  her  people.  They  tell  me 
such  marriages  have  been  made  in  Scotland  where  the 
Macphersons  lived  long  ago.  I  do  not  know.  Dave  Roi 
sneers  and  says  outside  that  it  is  no  marriage.  But  poor 
Bessie  Macpherson  holds  a  baby  on  her  knees  and  thinks 
she  is  Dave  Roi's  wife.  I  have  been  in  the  Macpherson 
house;  I  know." 

"The  dirty  dog!"  Aldrich  gasped.  Till  now  he  had  not 
thought  of  Evangeline  as  in  real  danger  of  contamination 
at  the  hands  of  Roi.  He  had  not  believed  that  the  man 
would  dare,  or  the  father  would  go  to  positive  extremes 
in  the  matter  of  the  marriage  that  had  been  contemplated. 
Evangeline  had  seemed  safe  there  in  the  north.  But 
these  times  were  not  the  old  times  of  law-abiding  placidity. 
Even  peaceful  Attegat — parish  of  the  good  Pere  Leclair — • 
was  in  tumult.  Yet  an  attempt  to  coerce  a  girl  into  mar 
riage,  even  though  the  father  favored  the  union,  would 
be  such  a  rash  undertaking  that  Aldrich  had  never  con 
sidered  this  contingency  as  possible. 

Now  his  suspicions  and  his  angry  fears  flamed  suddenly. 
He  wondered  why  he  had  not  realized  that  Dave  Roi  had 
never  been  accustomed  to  allow  any  considerations  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  the  gratification  of  his  passions.  In 
this  instance,  having  the  backing  of  the  father,  would  he 
show  man's  honor  in  regard  to  the  wishes  of  a  maid? 
Aldrich  knew  he  would  not.  He  cursed  his  own  stupidity 
in  leaving  Evangeline  unprotected.  He  was  like  a  man 
who  was  suddenly  awake. 


THE    RED    LANE 

"I  say  again,  I  think  it  is  for  no  good  that  Vetal  Beau- 
lieu  and  the  man  he  has  picked  out  for  his  girl  are  up 
here,"  stated  the  old  fiddler.  "What  to  do  I  know  not. 
But  I  have  told  you  the  truth,  M'ser.  I  think  the 
strength  is  in  your  two  arms,  after  what  I  have  told 
you." 

Yes,  and  the  hot  flame  of  love  was  in  his  heart,  Aldrich 
told  himself.  He  had  understood  her  so  well  from  the 
first,  had  so  clearly  seen  her  instinctive  aversion  to  the 
swaggering  Roi,  that  the  thought  of  a  rival  had  never 
disturbed  the  sweetness  of  his  affection  for  her.  In  spite 
of  the  distressing  contretemps  at  Bois-de-Rancourt,  their 
love  had  been  an  idyl.  He  was  sure  of  her  loyalty,  even 
though  their  circumstances  imposed  long  waiting  upon 
them.  The  pure  and  placid  romance  of  the  attachment 
had  overshadowed  the  sordid  recalcitrance  of  Vetal 
Beaulieu  and  the  sensual  wooing  by  Roi.  He  had  been 
sure  of  her  heart.  Other  considerations  had  not  weighed. 

Now  all  was  changed!  He  was  convinced  that  lustful 
passion  threatened  her.  A  satyr's  love,  sanctioned  by 
her  father,  pursued  her. 

The  spur  of  primal  instinct  roweled  Aldrich's  soul. 
The  female  he  had  chosen  for  his  mate  was  in  danger  of 
violation.  His  fears  argued  with  him  now:  there  could 
be  only  one  errand  which  would  bring  Beaulieu  and  Roi 
north,  despatching  their  emissaries  ahead  of  them  across 
the  border.  Beaulieu  had  determined  to  take  his  daughter ! 

Without  stopping  to  debate  the  question  of  paternal 
rights  versus  the  claims  of  love,  Norman  Aldrich  promptly 
determined  that  Beaulieu  should  not  carry  her  away 
where  she  would  be  exposed  to  persecutions  by  the  liber 
tine  who  coveted  her. 

Back  to  Attegat,  back  to  Evangeline,  if  danger  threat 
ened — there  seemed  to  lie  his  duty. 

176 


TRIALS    OF    A    KNIGHT-ERRANT 

"Thank  you — and  adieu,  M'ser  Billedeau,"  he  said, 
haste  in  his  tones.  "I  shall  act  on  what  you  have  said!" 

He  whirled  his  horse  and  clattered  away  up  the  slope. 
His  plan  was  not  clear  in  his  mind.  He  really  had  no 
definite  knowledge  that  danger  threatened  the  girl. 
Therefore,  circumstances  must  govern. 

Billedeau  had  warned  him  that  spies  had  been  sent 
along  the  highways.  Whynot  was  ahead  of  him.  He 
decided  to  be  cautious.  He  turned  off  the  road  into  the 
forest,  making  his  way  by  mossy  foot-paths  and  by  bush- 
bordered  lanes  which  lumbermen  had  used.  The  after 
noon  sun  was  low,  and  the  shadows  were  deep  under  the 
trees;  but  he  knew  the  hidden  ways  through  the  forest, 
for  he  had  traveled  them  at  times  when  caution  had 
counted  for  more  than  haste. 

Even  the  impetuosity  of  a  lover  must  defer  to  prudence. 
At  sunset  he  dismounted  at  a  brook  and  ate  his  bread  and 
meat  while  his  horse  cropped  the  grass  of  a  little  clearing. 
The  ride  to  Attegat,  by  the  winding  paths  and  devious 
lanes  he  had  chosen,  was  no  task  for  a  weary  and  hungry 
horse. 

It  was  dark  in  the  forest  when  he  swung  himself  into 
the  saddle.  Progress  was  slow  after  he  started.  There 
were  rotting  logs  across  the  way,  and  the  woodland  vistas 
were  puzzling  in  the  gloom.  In  the  silence  of  the  night 
the  fires  of  his  imagination  were  alight.  All  at  once  the 
panic  of  haste  took  possession  of  him.  He  blamed  the 
caution  that  had  inspired  him  to  avoid  the  spies.  To 
be  sure,  knowledge  of  the  whereabouts  of  a  man  who 
would  seriously  threaten  their  designs  would  be  valuable 
to  Vetal  and  his  companions,  and  such  reflection  had 
caused  Aldrich  to  leave  the  highway. 

While  his  horse  floundered  along  he  tried  to  console 
himself  by  the  thought  that,  lacking  information  as  to 

177 


THE    RED    LANE 

their  plans,  he  needed  to  employ  stealth.  The  spectacle 
of  him  pounding  along  the  highway  in  broad  day  on  the 
road  to  Attegat  would  have  put  his  foes  on  their  guard. 
But  after  a  time  he  was  not  consoled  by  that  thought. 
He  cursed  his  folly  aloud.  Ah,  he  had  gone  upon  this 
business  of  the  heart,  this  knight-errantry  for  the  sake  of 
the  girl  he  loved,  just  as  he  would  have  started  on  a  quest 
for  smugglers !  The  obsession  of  his  occupation  had  been 
too  strong.  He  had  employed  the  methods  of  a  sleuthing 
customs  deputy  in  an  affair  where  he  had  the  right  to 
stand  forth  and  demand  and  enforce  protection  of  the 
girl  he  loved  even  from  her  own  father;  in  his  new  exalta 
tion  he  decided  that  he  had  this  right.  For  Vetal  Beau- 
lieu  had  promised  her  to  a  licentious  scoundrel.  Without 
question — and  now  this  conviction  came  to  him  with  full 
force — the  two  were  in  the  north  country  for  the  one 
purpose  of  carrying  her  away  to  settle  her  future — as 
Roi's  wife.  And  he  was  wasting  his  time  dodging  trees 
and  wallowing  through  tote-road  sloughs,  playing  the 
game  of  merely  trying  to  outwit  an  adversary  when  the 
occasion  needed  action,  action  alone! 

It  is  said  that  the  night  brings  counsel.  In  the  gloom, 
as  his  horse  made  the  best  of  its  way  through  the  woods, 
thoughts  had  been  racing  through  the  mind  of  Aldrich. 
The  affair  of  Evangeline  Beaulieu  took  new  form.  With 
force  that  was  telepathic  the  consciousness  came  to  him 
that  he  was  wanted  in  Attegat  at  that  moment! 

By  following  the  sinuous  course  of  the  lanes  he  knew 
that  he  could  arrive  there  unobserved.  But,  to  repeat, 
the  panic  of  haste  took  possession  of  him  all  at  once. 

The  highways  from  across  the  border  came  into  Atte 
gat  like  fingers  converging  to  the  palm. 

Aldrich  was  between  two  of  those  fingers. 

He  leaped  off  his  horse  and  took  the  bridle-rein.  The 

178 


TRIALS   OF   A    KNIGHT-ERRANT 

work  he  had  ahead  of  him  just  then  was  not  a  horseback 
job.  He  would  be  obliged  to  desert  lanes  and  paths  and 
plunge  straight  through  the  woods  to  the  nearest  high 
way.  When  he  left  the  route  he  had  chosen  he  had  noth 
ing  except  sense  of  direction  to  guide  him.  Had  it  been 
day  he  could  have  found  a  tote-road  or  lumber-lane  lead 
ing  out  to  the  highway.  In  the  night,  among  the  trees, 
the  vistas  deceive. 

He  thrashed  his  way  through  bushes,  across  brooks, 
and  the  horse  followed  at  the  end  of  the  rein.  Now  and 
then  when  the  tree-tops  thinned  he  took  a  fresh  look  at 
the  north  star  and  rushed  on.  It  was  slow  work,  the  best 
he  could  make  of  it.  There  were  battlements  of  ledges 
where  he  was  obliged  to  make  detours  on  account  of  the 
horse.  Every  now  and  then  ravines  forced  him  to  re 
trace  his  steps.  He  was  headed  straight  across  broken 
country;  and  the  lanes  had  followed  the  lines  of  least 
resistance.  But  he  did  not  dare  to  turn  too  far  from  the 
direct  course,  and  over  and  over  he  risked  his  neck  and 
the  limbs  of  his  horse  in  making  a  climb  or  a  descent. 
In  places  the  crowns  of  the  black  growth  were  so  thick 
that  he  could  not  see  the  sky  or  find  his  guide,  the  north 
star.  Therefore,  he  lost  his  way  on  such  occasions. 

While  he  struggled  on  he  damned  himself  for  folly, 
inefficiency,  and  lack  of  all  qualities  a  man  ought  to  have. 
His  hands  were  bleeding  from  contact  with  the  sharp 
rocks;  his  face  was  gashed  and  smarting  from  thrusts  of 
twigs.  An  occasional  and  piteous  whinny  from  the  horse 
informed  the  officer  that  the  animal  was  having  his  own 
troubles. 

The  panic  which  assails  one  who  feels  that  he  is  late 
for  the  duty  which  calls  him  does  not  aid  in  accomplish 
ment.  Aldrich  fell  here  and  there;  he  rolled,  tugging 
along  his  much-enduring  horse,  and  when  at  last  he  burst 

179 


THE    RED    LANE 

from  the  forest  into  the  starlit  highway,  staggering  through 
the  wayside  alders,  bleeding,  tattered,  panting,  he  was 
far  from  feeling  like  a  hero  of  any  occasion,  nor  did  he 
resemble  one. 

He  was  a  disgusted,  overwrought  young  man,  blazing 
with  the  fury  of  impatience,  hot  with  the  fires  of  appre 
hension  on  behalf  of  one  whom  he  loved  with  all  his  soul 
and  for  whom  he  desperately  feared.  He  did  not  dare 
to  look  at  his  watch  to  discover  how  many  valuable  hours 
he  had  wasted  in  what  he  had  determined  would  be  a 
cautious  sortie  in  the  woods.  He  did  not  take  the  time 
to  wipe  the  sweat  and  blood  from  his  face.  He  leaped 
into  the  saddle  and  sent  his  horse  away  on  the  jump 
before  he  had  found  his  stirrups. 

"By  the  gods,  after  this  when  I  know  I'm  right  I'll 
go  the  straight  way  to  a  thing  and  go  on  the  gallop!"  he 
shouted  to  the  sky  above  him. 

Therefore,  out  of  that  travail  in  the  night-shrouded 
forest  came  a  resolution  which  was  worth  the  toil,  and 
which  served  him  well  in  certain  other  adventures  of  that 
stirring  evening. 

He  rode  toward  Attegat,  his  face  close  to  the  flying 
mane  of  his  horse,  encouraging  the  animal  with  pat  of 
the  hand  and  crooning  word.  He  did  not  look  to  right 
or  left  in  search  of  the  spies  of  Dave  Roi.  His  eyes  were 
ahead,  his  heart  leaping  toward  Madame  Ouillette's 
cottage  in  Attegat.  That  he  was  too  late,  that  the  spies 
were  no  longer  required,  was  a  thought  which  seared  his 
soul! 


XV 

THE    SEVEN   DOGS   OF   WAR 

HE  village  of  Attegat  lay  hushed  under 
the  stars.  The  impetuous  rush  of  Al- 
drich's  horse  along  the  street  to  the 
square  awakened  the  echoes — nothing 
else.  The  folks  went  to  bed  early  and 
slept  soundly  in  Attegat. 
In  the  square  the  officer  halted  his  sweating  horse  at 
the  mossy  trough,  and  the  animal  thirstily  drove  his  nose 
into  the  water  to  his  eyes.  Then  there  were  no  other 
sounds  than  the  eager  suffiing  as  the  horse  drank,  the  tinkle 
of  the  little  stream  from  the  wooden  spout,  the  tired  mur 
muring  of  nestling  doves  in  the  eaves  here  and  there. 
The  windows  of  the  houses  were  blank  and  dark.  In 
Pere  Leclair's  church  the  altar  light  glimmered  weakly — 
the  only  spark  that  illumined  the  darkness. 

Aldrich  allowed  the  dripping  horse  to  drink  but  little, 
both  prudence  and  impatience  governing  him. 

He  rode  toward  Madame  Ouillette's  house.     Yes,  there 
was  one  more  light  in  the  village.     It  was  in  Madame 
Ouillette's  window.     He  saw  it  when  he  turned  the  cor 
ner  and  began  the  ascent  of  the  hill.     The  gate  was  open. 
He  dismounted  and  led  his  horse  to  the  door,  and  he  heard 
steps  hurrying  within  after  he  rapped. 
It  was  Madame  Ouillette  who  opened. 
"Ah,"  she  cried,  blinking  sleepily  at  the  night  outside, 
13  181 


THE    RED    LANE 

seeing  but  dimly,  "you  have  come  back,  then,  Mam'selle 
Evangeline?    I  have  waited.     I  have  worried." 

"Is  Mam'selle  Evangeline  not  here?"  he  gasped.  "I 
am  Norman  Aldrich.  When  did  she  go  away?  Where 
is  she?  Speak  quickly,  Madame!" 

Agonizing  fear  quivered  in  his  tones.  He  set  his  hands 
on  either  side  of  the  door  and  leaned  to  her,  stammering 
more  questions. 

"Her  father  came.  Ah,  yes,  he  was  her  father.  She 
called  him  that.  She  went  out-of-doors  to  talk  with  him. 
She  has  not  come  back.  He  was  her  father,"  she  insisted, 
quieting  her  own  misgivings.  "So  I  did  not  worry.  But 
I  have  been  wondering  why  she  has  not  come  back." 

"My  God!"  Aldrich  groaned.  "Why  did  you  allow 
her  to  go?  Why  did  you  not  give  alarm?  They  have 
stolen  her.  It  is  a  damnable  plot." 

"But  it  was  her  father,"  repeated  Madame  Ouillette. 
"Who  has  the  right  to  step  between  a  father  and  his  girl?" 

In  that  tumult  of  his  emotions  the  woman's  remark 
was  like  a  blow  in  the  face.  He  groaned.  Who  had  the 
right?  Then  he  thought  of  Dave  Roi,  and  that  thought 
was  like  a  blow  of  the  whip  across  the  flanks  of  a  race 
horse.  He  cursed.  For  him  it  was  no  longer  a  matter 
between  Vetal  Beaulieu  and  his  daughter ;  it  was  a  matter 
between  Roi  and  a  man  for  whom  Evangeline  had  de 
clared  her  love. 

"Do  you  know  nothing  more?" 
'"No,  M'ser.     But  tell  me  what—" 

He  did  not  wait.  She  screamed  frantic  queries  after 
him  as  he  galloped  away. 

In  the  middle  of  the  village  square  a  dim  figure  stood 
with  arms  upraised.  The  gesture  was  so  compelling, 
so  appealing,  that  he  reined  down  his  horse.  The  man 
was  Notary  Pierre  Gendreau. 

182 


THE    SEVEN    DOGS    OF    WAR 

"I  heard  the  horse's  hoofs  when  you  hurried  past. 
'Trouble,  trouble,'  they  seemed  to  say.  I  guessed  it 
might  be  you,  M'ser  Aldrich.  You  have  found  it  out  for 
yourself,  then?" 

"I  have  found  out  that  Vetal  Beaulieu  has  been  here 
to-night  and  taken  away  his  daughter,"  blurted  the 
young  man.  "Is  that  what  you  mean,  notary?" 

"I  do  not  mean  that — I  did  not  know  of  it.  But  this 
is  what  I  know.  I  am  a  notary.  I  have  business  with 
the  town  clerk  at  Attegat  at  times.  I  am  entitled  to 
inspect  his  records.  Intentions  of  marriage  between 
David  Roi  and  Evangeline  Beaulieu  have  been  entered 
on  those  books.  Yes,  and  the  license  has  been  issued. 
I  saw  the  names  there  to-day." 

Aldrich  reeled  on  his  horse.  The  notary  peered  up  at 
the  face  that  was  ghastly  white  in  the  starlight — lined 
here  and  there  by  the  blood  from  the  wounds  the  lashing 
twigs  had  dealt. 

"It  seemed  to  me  like  mischief,"  faltered  the  old  man. 
"I  know  Dave  Roi.  He  is  not  a  fit  husband  for  a  girl. 
But  I  did  not  think  Vetal  Beaulieu  would  do  what  you 
have  said." 

"All  of  us  are  fools,"  declared  Aldrich,  hotly.  "We 
have  let  an  innocent  girl  be  dragged  out  of  this  village. 
She  is  in  the  clutches  of  the  worst  renegade  on  this  bor 
der.  Good  God  above  us!  Where  have  they  taken  her? 
What  is  happening  to  her?" 

He  spurred  his  horse  in  his  frenzy,  holding  the  reins 
tight,  and  the  animal  spun  around  in  a  circle  on  scuffling 
feet.  To  right  and  left  and  all  about  Aldrich  directed 
agonized  glances  as  though  he  were  trying  to  decide 
which  direction  to  take.  His  thoughts  were  piercing  him 
like  knife-thrusts.  His  imagination  painted  a  hideous 
picture.  His  were  the  tortures  of  a  man  bound  hand 

183 


THE    RED    LANE 

and  foot  and  doomed  to  witness  the  ravishment    of  a 
maid. 

"They  can't  make  her  marry  him.  She  hates  the 
wretch.  Such  things  cannot  be  done,"  he  choked. 

"When  men  are  determined  and  desperate' — and  a 
father  is  present  and  consents,  a  great  deal  can  be  done," 
stated  the  notary,  sadly.  "I  see  the  hand  of  Louis  Blais 
in  this.  He  has  the  right  to  perform  marriages.  Yes, 
a  great  deal  can  be  done  when  men  are  desperate  and 
dishonest." 

He  was  talking  to  a  madman. 

Aldrich  leaped  off  his  horse  and  went  down  on  his 
knees  in  the  dust  of  the  square.  He  put  his  face  close 
to  the  ground.  He  stared  with  filming  eyes  at  the  criss 
crossing  of  wagon  tracks.  He  realized  that  such  efforts 
to  gain  clues  were  worse  than  useless.  But  he  was  not 
in  a  state  of  mind  to  use  reason.  Oh,  to  find  some  sign 
which  would  show  him  which  way  they  had  taken  her! 
To  see  one  rut  fresher  than  the  rest  which  would  afford 
a  hint! 

"How  did  they  come?  How  did  they  go?"  he  gasped. 
"Did  you  not  hear  them,  notary?  Was  there  not  a  cry 
for  help?  You  heard  me!  Why  didn't  you  hear  them? 
You  must  have  heard  a  horse — a  wagon — something!" 

"No,  I  heard  nothing.  Wagons  come  and  go  here  in 
the  night.  I  do  not  notice  them.  But  your  horse  gal 
loped — you  hurried — and  I  knew  the  names  had  been 
entered  on  the  clerk's  books,  and  I  had  been  worrying." 

Aldrich  struggled  to  his  feet.  He  brandished  his  arm 
above  his  head.  His  lips  were  rolled  away  from  his 
teeth. 

" Oh,  if  I  were  only  a  hound  instead  of  a  man  just  now! 
I  would  follow  on  my  hands  and  knees.  I  am  good  for 
nothing.  I  have  let  them  steal  her,"  he  raved. 

184 


THE    SEVEN    DOGS    OF    WAR 

Notary  Gendreau  folded  his  arms  in  the  cloak  which 
he  had  thrown  over  his  night-gear  and  wagged  his  head 
sympathetically.  But,  having  no  suggestions  to  offer,  he 
kept  silent. 

There  were  four  roads  out  of  Attegat  besides  the  main 
road  to  the  south. 

"No,  they  would  not  have  gone  toward  Monarda," 
the  officer  burst  out,  answering  certain  mental  calcula 
tions  which  the  notary  himself  was  revolving.  "Roi  is 
a  coward.  He  would  not  take  the  road  on  this  side  of 
the  river.  He  has  gone  back  toward  the  border.  Oh, 
God  in  the  heavens,  tell  me  which  road  he  took!" 

He  lifted  his  face  to  the  stars.  In  the  stillness  there 
was  the  sound  of  tinkling  water  from  the  trough  near  by; 
the  doves  still  nestled  and  mourned.  . 

Then  came  another  sound,  the  sound  of  plodding  feet. 
Out  of  the  gloom  a  man  emerged.  At  his  heels  followed 
dogs,  dim  shadows  in  the  night.  Aldrich  recognized  him. 
This  was  the  terse  individual  of  the  seven  hounds,  and 
the  memory  of  what  he  said  concerning  Dave  Roi  flashed 
before  Aldrich  like  a  lightning-thrust  across  black  night. 

The  officer  rushed  to  meet  the  man.  He  seized  him 
by  the  coat  lapels.  He  shook  him,  and  the  man  fairly 
barked  his  alarm  as  he  tried  to  jerk  himself  away. 

"But  listen,  man,  listen!"  pleaded  Aldrich,  babbling 
like  a  lunatic.  "This  is  more  than  life  or  death.  It  is 
love — it  is  saving  a  pure  girl  from  damnation.  You  have 
boasted  of  your  dogs.  Listen,  man !  You  have  said  they 
hate  Dave  Roi.  He  has  stolen  a  girl.  He  is  going  to — 
going  to — but  it  isn't  marriage!  It  is  ruin  for  her.  It  is 
dirty  outrage.  This  is  Notary  Pierre  Gendreau.  He  will 
tell  you.  I  am  mad.  I  know  it.  But  listen,  man." 

He  went  on  incoherently,  but  the  solemn  individual 
began  to  listen  with  interest.  Notary  Gendreau  added 

185 


THE    RED    LANE 

a  word  now  and  then.  The  hounds  sat  on  their  haunches, 
tongues  lolling,  their  eyes  shining  with  red  and  green 
fires. 

"You  said  they  would  follow  Dave  Roi.  Send  them 
after  him.  Name  your  price." 

"Hold  on  a  minute,  mister.  If  it's  for  the  reason  you 
say,  and  Dave  Roi  is  the  man,  there  ain't  any  price  to 
this  thing.  Did  I  say  they  would  follow  him?  Yes,  they 
will  follow  him.  Even  if  he  has  flown  away  from  here 
instead  of  walked  or  rode,  those  dogs  will  follow  him. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  to  him  when  you  catch  him?" 

"Send  your  dogs  ahead  of  me,"  Aldrich  gasped. 
"What  does  a  man  do  when  he  is  saving  the  girl  he 
loves?" 

"I  see  you  carry  a  rifle  on  your  back.  If  I  trust  seven 
of  the  best  dogs  in  the  world  to  you,  can  you  protect  'em? 
That's  what  I  want  to  know.  I  realize  pretty  well  what 
you  will  do  for  the  girl.  Will  you  do  just  as  well  for  my 
dogs?" 

"As  long  as  I  have  a  cartridge  left,"  declared  Aldrich, 
with  passion. 

"Let  me  look  at  you!"  The  man  took  Aldrich  by  the 
shoulders  and  studied  his  face  by  the  light  of  the  stars. 
He  saw  a  countenance  that  was  pale,  rigid,  bitterly  deter 
mined,  and  the  eyes  blazed  with  fires  that  made  the  in 
vestigator  blink. 

"I  reckon  you  mean  business,  mister,"  he  admitted. 
"And  now  that  I  have  met  up  with  a  man  who  really 
means  business  and  proposes  to  make  Dave  Roi  'the 
business,'  I'm  ready  to  do  my  part.  I  have  been  wonder 
ing  why  I  kept  on  walking  to-night.  But  something  told 
me  to  walk — and  I  walked.  I've  found  out  why." 

He  released  the  officer  and  drew  an  article  from  his 
pocket.  It  was  the  glove  he  had  previously  shown  Al- 

186 


THE    SEVEN    DOGS    OF    WAR 

drich.  He  held  it  above  the  heads  of  the  attentive  dogs, 
as  high  as  he  could  stretch  his  arms,  and  uttered  a  peculiar 
and  shrill  cry.  They  replied  hollowly  and  came  crowding 
around  him. 

"Get  on  your  horse,  mister,"  he  advised,  "for  when 
they  start,  they  start  strong.  And  remember  that  yell! 
A  last  word."  He  looked  up  at  Aldrich,  who  had  mounted 
with  alacrity.  "I'll  be  here  waiting  for  you  when  you 
bring  back  my  dogs,  and  remember  that  you're  to  bring 
seven.  Remember  the  yell!  They'll  follow  you  back 
after  you  give  it." 

"You  will  be  at  my  house  yonder,"  stated  Notary 
Gendreau.  "I  offer  you  bed  and  hospitality,  M'ser." 

The  man  drove  the  glove  down  upon  the  ground  under 
the  noses  of  the  hounds  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
arms. 

"That's  the  hellion,  boys!    Get  him!" 

The  hounds  bumped  their  heads  together,  snuffing 
eagerly.  Then  they  separated  and  ran  to  and  fro,  their 
ears  lapping  the  dust  of  the  highway. 

"I  thought  dogs  needed  the  scent  where  a  foot  has 
trodden,"  suggested  Notary  Gendreau.  "Roi  must  have 
ridden  away." 

"Those  dogs  don't,"  returned  the  owner,  curtly.  "Not 
in  the  case  of  a  man  who  went  into  the  pack  and  ham 
mered  one  of  'em  dead.  You've  got  a  lot  to  learn  about 
dogs,  sir,  and  you  can  learn  more  from  my  dogs  than  you 
can  from  any  others  in  the  world." 

One  of  the  hounds  uttered  a  tremulous  wail. 

' ' They're  off, ' '  cried  the  owner.  "It's  up  to  you,  officer. 
They're  my  boys;  take  care  of  'em!" 

Aldrich  did  not  reply.  His  thoughts  were  too  busy. 
Fortune  had  shuffled  and  dealt  him  a  strange  hand  on  a 
sudden.  The  flying  hounds  were  streaming  ahead  of  him 

187 


THE    RED    LANE 

down  the  village  street.     He  set  his  teeth  and  followed 
at  a  gallop. 

Once  or  twice,  in  the  main  street  of  the  village,  the  dogs 
slowed  and  shuttled  from  side  to  side  of  the  highway,  as 
though  in  momentary  doubt  or  because  they  desired  to 
reassure  themselves.  Then  they  sped  on.  Below  Pere 
Leclair's  stone  house  a  narrow  road  led  off  to  the  north. 
The  hounds  ran  tumultuously  past  the  end  of  this  road, 
yelped  a  shrill  chorus  of  disappointment,  and  turned  in 
a  pack  with  such  haste  that  they  sprawled  and  skated  in 
the  dust.  They  swept  into  the  branch  road. 

After  that  there  was  no  hesitation.  They  ran  furious 
ly,  and  at  their  heels  came  Aldrich  at  the  full  stride  of 
his  horse.  Out  of  the  welter  of  his  emotions  rose  then 
the  happy  consciousness  that  he  had  a  horse  who  would 
not  fail  him  in  this  crisis.  He  had  tested  the  animal  on 
many  occasions.  Aldrich  understood  by  the  nervous 
spring  of  the  shoulders  between  his  knees  that  this  horse 
had  forgotten  the  trials  of  the  early  evening  in  this  new  lark 
behind  the  hounds.  The  dogs  were  serving  as  pace-makers. 
Even  a  weary  horse  is  stimulated  by  the  spirit  of  a  race. 

But  it  settled  into  a  long  race.  The  narrow  road  was 
winding,  and  led  them  by  devious  ways.  They  coursed 
hills  where  the  warm  breath  of  the  summer  night  fanned 
Aldrich's  burning  cheeks;  then  they  swept  down  and  into 
hollows  where  the  air  was  moist  and  damp  with  the  eery 
chills  of  marshes  and  watercourses,  and  where  white 
veils  of  the  mist  drifted  over  the  alders.  The  dogs  ran  in 
silence.  Aldrich  kept  his  eyes  on  the  flapping  ears  and  the 
waving  tails,  and  in  his  breast  there  began  to  glow  a 
strange  sense  of  affection  and  gratitude  toward  these 
zealous  and  unflagging  guides. 

He  was  a  man  and  they  were  dogs,  but  the  same  spirit 
of  vengeance  animated  all  of  them! 

188 


THE    SEVEN    DOGS    OF    WAR 

He  did  not  ponder  coolly  as  he  rode.  His  thoughts 
were  white-hot,  and  through  them  played  one  red  flame: 
the  devilish  conviction  that  Roi,  sanctioned  and  abetted 
by  the  father,  would  set  no  bounds  to  his  lustful  despera 
tion  in  making  this  girl  his  own.  The  affair  might  be 
mockery  of  marriage;  but,  nevertheless,  it  would  be 
effectual  in  enslaving  Evangeline  Beaulieu.  He  knew  the 
border;  its  loose  code  of  action,  its  callous  indifference, 
its  habit  of  accepting  what  had  been  accomplished  as 
being  right  and  proper.  And  in  the  matters  of  women, 
the  independence  of  girls,  the  border  sentiment  harked 
back  to  the  old  days,  the  sentiment  of  which  Vetal  Beau- 
lieu  had  expressed  when  he  declared:  "I  say  to  my  wife 
'go,'  and  she  go — that  is  the  way  of  the  women  of 
Acadia!" 

So  he  rode  with  fury  of  haste  and  despair.  He  took 
no  thought  of  what  he  would  do  when  he  arrived.  He 
pondered  no  longer  upon  the  question  of  his  rights  in' 
the  matter  of  Vetal  Beaulieu's  daughter.  He  considered 
not  the  miles  Or  the  direction.  Whether  he  had  crossed 
the  border  or  not,  whether  he  was  in  the  States  or  in 
Canada,  he  did  not  care.  He  was  no  longer  an  officer 
of  the  customs;  he  was  a  man  seeking  the  girl  he  loved. 
He  flung  away  his  cap  with  the  badge  which  made  him 
respect  the  covenants  of  nations  as  to  metes  and  bounds. 
That  badge  had  halted  him  once  when  all  his  heart  reached 
out  for  her,  when  he  had  been  obliged  by  his  official  duty 
and  his  oath  to  respect  that  painted  line  on  the  floor  of 
Beaulieu's  Place — to  halt  there  as  though  it  were  a  wall 
reaching  to  the  heavens. 

He  felt  savage  satisfaction  when  he  hurled  the  cap  from 
him.  The  act  seemed  like  symbolizing  his  bursting  of 
all  the  trammels  of  those  hampering  considerations  which 
bind  men  to  this  and  to  that.  The  red  blood  of  achieve- 

189 


THE    RED    LANE 

ment  streamed  in  his  veins.  He  was  the  male  seeking 
the  mate  who  had  been  ravished  from  him. 

One  man  against  numbers?  His  desperation  made  no 
account  of  that! 

"  Hold  up !"  It  was  a  hoarse  hail  from  the  gloom  ahead 
of  him.  But  the  next  moment  he  was  past  the  man, 
whoever  he  was.  The  hounds  had  not  hesitated.  A 
fusillade  of  revolver-shots  chattered  behind.  But  Aldrich 
minded  the  popping  of  protest  not  at  all,  and  the  bullets 
yipped  harmlessly  past  him. 

It  was  evident  that  Roi  had  posted  a  picket.  Aldrich 
swung  his  rifle  from  his  shoulder  into  his  hand.  A  picket 
hinted  that  the  scene  of  action  was  near  at  last. 

Suddenly  the  hounds  gave  tongue.  At  the  foot  of  the 
hill  down  which  they  were  rushing  was  a  house  which 
was  signaled  by  a  light  in  an  uncurtained  window.  A 
pale  glow  from  an  open  door  illuminated  the  yard,  which 
sloped  from  the  road.  Aldrich  had  time  to  note  a  buck- 
board  with  horses  attached,  and  there  were  several  horses 
picketed  near  the  fence.  He  saw  this  in  a  flash,  as  the 
camera  sees.  The  reins  were  loose  on  his  horse's  neck, 
and  he  was  riding  at  the  heels  of  the  hounds  at  top  speed. 

The  hounds  gave  tongue  more  vociferously!  They 
announced  that  the  quarry  had  been  run  to  earth! 

The  bedlam  of  their  voices  was  terrifying;  it  had  broken 
out  so  suddenly  in  the  night's  silences !  It  was  unexpected, 
deafening,  weird  clamor.  The  howls  and  yelps  made  a 
din  that  would  have  struck  dismay  to  the  heart  of  a  com 
pany  of  grenadiers. 

The  dogs  headed  straight  for  the  open  door  and  leaped 
through  it  headlong,  tumbling  over  each  other.  The 
horses  of  the  buckboard  sagged  back  on  their  halters, 
broke  them,  and  ran.  Aldrich  escaped  being  carried  down 
in  that  rush  only  by  swerving  his  horse,  and  at  the  same 

190 


THE    SEVEN    DOGS   OF   WAR 

time  he  leaped  to  the  ground.  He  had  seen  a  man  on 
the  door-stoop  as  he  came  up.  This  man  darted  to  one 
side  when  the  dogs  rushed  past  him.  It  was  evident  that 
this  charge  of  hounds  had  been  too  terrifying  for  his 
nerves.  But  Aldrich,  leaping  at  their  heels,  was  a  man, 
and  the  outpost  took  courage  and  came  at  him  with  an 
oath.  The  light  revealed  his  identity  to  the  officer.  It 
was  Zealor  Whynot.  The  officer  was  running.  With  the 
whole  force  of  his  body  behind  his  fist  he  struck  Whynot 
as  he  hurdled  the  stoop,  and  the  man  crumpled  and  rolled 
off  the  steps  to  the  ground. 

This  first  engagement  was  so  summary  that  Aldrich 
did  not  lose  his  stride.  He  was  down  the  hall  and  into 
the  rear  room  of  the  house  just  as  the  first  of  the  pack 
of  frantic  hounds  hurled  themselves  against  Roi. 

Again  that  camera  flash  of  vision  for  Aldrich — the 
agony  of  his  anxiety  imprinting  that  scene  on  his  soul 
forever ! 

His  first  wild  stare  was  for  Evangeline. 

He  and  his  dogs  had  burst  in  there  so  suddenly  that 
he  had  given  the  actors  in  the  drama  no  time  to  leave 
their  poses. 

Vetal  Beaulieu  was  holding  his  daughter's  wrists. 
Even  the  tempestuous  arrival  of  the  hounds,  this  irrup 
tion  of  strange  disturbers,  had  not  availed  wholly  to 
alter  the  expression  of  her  face — the  expression  with  which 
she  had  confronted  her  persecutors  before  he  came. 

This  was  no  despairing,  surrendering,  fainting  maid 
on  whom  he  gazed. 

One  look  at  her,  and  he  understood ! 

She  had  been  battling.  It  had  been  a  fight  against 
odds.  She  was  one  against  them  all  and  helpless.  Of 
the  end  of  the  single  combat  there  could  have  been  no 
doubt.  Louis  Blais  was  standing  there,  the  marriage 

191 


THE    RED    LANE 

license  in  his  hand,  the  words  ready  upon  his  tongue. 
Vetal  Beaulieu,  glowering,  determined — his  pride,  his 
money,  his  peace  of  mind  at  stake — clutched  her  wrists 
and  had  sworn  that  she  should  marry  the  man  to  whom 
he  had  promised  her.  In  the  end  she  must  have  been 
overwhelmed,  but  when  Norman  Aldrich  burst  into  that 
room  she  was  battling  with  all  the  fierce  resolution,  the 
strength  of  soul,  the  stubborn  ardor  of  her  Acadian  fore 
bears.  Upon  her  cheeks  flamed  the  battle-flag  her  un 
daunted  soul  had  set  there.  Her  eyes,  when  they  met 
his,  were  filled  with  the  fires  of  bitter  resolve. 

Into  the  one  word  "Evangeline!"  he  put  all  the  love, 
the  joy,  the  encouragement,  the  hope  that  human  voice 
can  compass,  and  her  love-lit  eyes  and  her  thrilling  word 
in  return  rewarded  him,  gave  him  the  fierce  valor  that 
makes  no  account  of  odds.  All  in  that  one  instant  he  saw 
and  comprehended. 

The  hounds  were  battering  themselves  against  Roi. 
They  did  not  rend  and  tear.  That  is  not  the  nature  of 
hounds  with  men.  They  leaped  singly,  in  twos,  and  in 
threes.  In  that  small  room  the  roar  of  their  howls  beat 
upon  the  ears  with  distracting  violence.  Sound  alone 
would  have  been  sufficiently  terrifying.  But  it  was  plain 
that  the  smuggler  expected  that  they  were  leaping  at 
him  to  set  their  teeth  in  his  flesh.  He  was  screaming  in 
mad  fright. 

He  curved  his  arms  before  his  face.  He  kicked  wildly. 
But  the  dogs  yelled  and  leaped  and  drove  themselves 
against  him,  pounding  him  against  the  wall,  spattering 
his  convulsed  face  with  froth  and  spume  from  their 
slavering  jaws. 

Blais  endured  the  astounding  scene  for  a  moment  and 
then  sprang  over  the  swirling  mass  of  dogs  and  dashed 
out  a  window  with  his  foot. 

192 


THE    SEVEN    DOGS    OF    WAR 

"They're  mad!"  he  screamed. 

There  were  several  other  men  in  the  room,  and  they 
followed  Blais  when  he  threw  himself  out  of  the  window. 
Others  yelled  the  frantic  warning  that  the  dogs  were  mad. 
That  fear  routed  Roi's  supporters  more  effectually  than 
clubs  and  rifles  would  have  done.  The  mortal  terror  of 
men  who  were  menaced  by  hideous  peril  drove  them. 

"You  are  cowards — you  are  all  cowards!"  vociferated 
Vetal,  his  own  fears  giving  him  the  sudden,  fictitious 
courage  which  weak  men  show  when  they  are  at  bay. 
He  released  his  daughter's  wrists.  Aldrich  had  leaped 
in  their  direction. 

Roi  could  not  escape.  The  dogs  kept  battering  him 
against  the  wall. 

"You  have  no  right,"  shrieked  Vetal;  but  the  furious 
young  lover  was  in  no  mood  to  argue  over  again  with 
Vetal  Beaulieu  that  matter  of  rights. 

"To  my  horse!  Quick!  To  my  horse!"  Aldrich 
thrust  the  girl  on  her  way  even  as  he  spoke.  "  I'll  follow. ' ' 

The  next  moment,  using  his  rifle  as  he  would  handle  a 
batstick,  he  struck  the  lantern  and  sent  it  whirling  from 
a  table  through  the  open  window.  In  the  sudden,  black 
darkness  the  howling  of  the  dogs  was  more  awful,  more 
stupefying.  The  noise  in  those  close  quarters  fairly 
made  the  brain  reel. 

The  flabby  publican  clutched  the  officer  in  the  dark 
ness. 

"Here  he  is,  Dave!     I  have  him!     Kill  him!" 

Time  was  precious.  Only  seconds  had  elapsed.  The 
surprise  had  been  complete  and  effective.  The  con 
spirators  were  in  confusion  for  the  moment.  Aldrich 
realized  that  he  must  not  delay  then,  even  for  the  sake 
of  satisfying  his  very  natural  inclination  to  square  his 
score  with  David  Roi.  But  when  Roi  came  dashing  for- 

193 


THE    RED    LANE 

ward,  at  last,  fending  off  the  dogs,  striving  to  reach  the 
door,  Aldrich,  though  the  gloom  was  like  a  pall,  sensed 
the  proximity  of  his  hated  foe.  He  threw  Vetal  off,  and 
the  next  moment  felt  that  sweet  satisfaction  which  goes 
back  to  those  primitive  days  when  the  mind  of  man  was 
not  acute  enough  to  win  its  comfort  from  mere  moral 
victories;  he  felt  his  naked  fist  against  the  flesh  of  the 
scoundrel  who  had  tried  to  steal  a  woman,  and  he  heard 
the  scoundrel's  body  go  down  in  a  corner  of  the  room; 
and  then  he  decided  that  his  business  in  that  locality  did 
not  require  any  more  of  his  personal  attention. 

His  duty  lay  outside  that  room! 

His  arms  ached  to  hold  her,  to  lift  her  to  his  breast. 
He  wanted  to  make  sure  of  her.  After  the  agony  of  his 
fears  for  her  safety,  only  the  assurance  that  she  was  held 
against  his  breast  would  satisfy  him.  Such  was  the  im 
pulse  that  sent  him  racing  back  into  the  night  outside. 

The  man  beside  the  stoop  was  rolling  and  moaning.  He 
was  surely  out  of  the  fight;  but  above  the  din  of  the  dogs 
Aldrich  could  hear  the  voice  of  Blais  in  the  rear  of  the 
house,  rallying  those  who  had  escaped  with  him  through 
the  window. 

The  lover  realized  that  a  convent-bred  girl,  even  though 
she  were  a  girl  of  the  border,  must  lack  the  experience  as 
a  horsewoman  that  would  be  needed  in  that  crisis. 

She  was  waiting  for  him  beside  his  panting  horse. 
The  poor  brute  had  performed  his  full  task  for  that 
night.  Among  the  three  horses  picketed  in  the  yard 
his  quick  eye  singled  the  sturdy  horse  which  Roi 
rode  up  and  down  the  border.  He  ran  and  flung 
himself  upon  the  animal  and  leaned  and  loosed  the 
others.  They  had  been  rearing  and  neighing  in  fright 
ever  since  the  advent  of  the  hounds.  They  did  not 
need  the  kicks  and  yells  he  gave  them.  They  bolted, 

194 


THE    SEVEN    DOGS    OF    WAR 

and  on  their  heels  he  swung  his  new  mount  and  caught 
up  the  girl.  She  clung  to  him,  and,  as  he  started  away, 
he  imitated  the  shrill  call  with  which  the  gaunt  man  had 
apostrophized  the  hounds.  He  had  given  their  owner 
his  man's  pledge.  He  did  not  forget  the  dogs!  His  own 
horse  was  cantering  beside  him,  whickering  plaintive 
assurance  of  loyalty. 

"My  darling!"  he  gasped.  "Hold  tight!  We're  safe." 
But  at  that  moment  he  felt  the  thud  of  a  bullet  against 
flesh  and  bone  of  the  horse  between  his  knees.  The 
crack  of  a  rifle  came  to  his  ears  an  instant  later.  Some 
one  had  fired  from  the  house.  In  spite  of  his  desperate 
effort  to  save  the  fall,  he  and  his  burden  rolled  upon  the 
turf  of  the  yard  when  the  horse  went  down.  But  that 
whicker  of  loyal  pledge  had  meant  something.  When 
Aldrich  came  to  his  feet  his  own  horse  had  halted.  The 
girl  was  on  her  knees  now.  His  temples  cracking  with  the 
effort,  he  tossed  her  into  the  saddle. 

Once  more  he  unslung  his  rifle.  That  bullet  had  de 
clared  their  code  of  conflict. 

"Go  on!  Hurry  on!"  he  commanded  the  girl.  "Cling 
to  his  mane.  For  God's  sake  hold  tight!  Go  on!" 

Then  he  began  to  fire. 

He  did  not  take  aim.  He  clutched  his  rifle  and  pumped 
the  lever,  cursing  them,  threatening  them.  He  did  not 
know  whether  they  fired  again.  He  could  not  hear. 
The  hounds  went  racing  past,  and  he  turned  and  ran  after 
them.  When  he  overtook  the  horse,  he  grasped  the  sad 
dle  and  forced  the  animal  into  a  trot  by  slaps  and  adjura 
tions.  He  did  not  dare  to  task  the  horse  by  mounting. 
The  palpitating  flanks  under  his  palm  showed  that  the 
brute  was  laboring.  But  no  man  on  foot  could  overtake 
them,  for  Aldrich,  clinging  to  the  saddle,  was  dragged  along 
at  a  nimble  pace.  When  he  could  run  no  longer,  when  his 

195 


THE    RED    LANE 

heart  seemed  bursting  and  his  eyes  were  dim  and  his 
throat  was  constricted  as  though  an  iron  band  were  set 
about  it,  he  drew  the  loose  rein. 

Then  he  realized  that  a  sound  he  had  been  hearing  was 
Evangeline's  voice.  She  was  imploring,  protesting,  be 
seeching. 

"  I  will  not  ride  longer,  Norman.  My  lover,  my  sweet 
heart,  I  will  not  ride.  You  are  suffering.  I  am  strong. 
I  will  run  beside  you." 

But  when  she  struggled  and  desired  to  slide  from  the 
saddle  he  prevented  her.  He  had  taken  her  hands  in 
his  own,  and  now  he  walked  beside  the  horse,  holding 
them,  pressing  them,  trying  to  tell  her  his  joy  and  his 
love  in  that  fashion,  for  he  had  yet  no  breath  for  words. 

The  tumult  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  either  had  called  in 
the  picket  or  had  sent  him  scurrying  away  in  flight.  He 
did  not  molest  the  little  party  which  was  making  its  re 
treat  from  the  battle-field. 

At  last  Aldrich  pulled  his  horse  to  a  standstill.  He 
listened.  There  was  no  sound  behind  them.  The  pant 
ing  of  the  hounds  at  his  feet,  the  rustling  of  the  night 
breeze  in  the  trees  above  their  heads,  faint  shrilling  of 
insects  in  the  wayside  grasses — there  was  no  more  omi 
nous  sound  than  these. 

He  babbled  to  her  incoherently  as  he  marched  on,  and 
she  answered  through  sobs  of  thankful  happiness. 

Now  and  then  he  hurried  the  horse  and  ran  until 
fatigue  mastered  him,  for  he  feared  mischief  might  come 
suddenly  from  that  silence  behind  them. 

So  they  went  on  through  the  night,  back  toward  Attegat. 

When  the  horse  walked,  Evangeline  caressed  her  lover's 
face  with  trembling  palm,  and  dared  once  to  lean  and  kiss 
his  forehead.  And  once  he  stopped  the  horse  and  pulled 
her  down  upon  his  breast  and  put  into  an  embrace  all 

196 


"MY  DARLING!"   HE  GASPED.     "HOLD  TIGHT!     WE'RE  SAFE!" 


THE    SEVEN    DOGS    OF    WAR 

the  passionate  longing  of  his  love  and  all  the  delirious 
thanksgiving  of  his  soul. 

"Oh,  my  father!  My  father!"  she  mourned,  at  last. 
"I  went  out  to  him  with  love  in  my  heart,  Norman,  for 
he  told  me  that  he  had  come  to  be  my  good  father — he 
asked  me  to  go  with  him  to  Pere  Leclair's,  where  he  could 
confess  his  sins  and  make  his  pledge.  Oh,  Holy  Mother, 
have  pity  on  a  poor  girl  whose  father  has  become  her 
worst  enemy!" 

She  told  him  the  pitiful  story  of  how  she  had  been 
carried  away,  her  father's  hand  smothering  her  cries  as 
they  rode  out  of  Attegat. 

Aldrich  soothed  her  as  best  he  could;  but  in  that  stress 
of  grief  he  realized  that  words  availed  little.  But  in  tell 
ing  her  of  his  love  he  was  more  eloquent.  He  forgot  his 
weariness  as  he  plodded  on.  Her  hands  were  in  his,  and, 
when  he  drew  her  down  to  him,  her  lips  pressed  him  with 
the  ardor  of  a  love  which  had  been  hallowed  by  the  grati 
tude  of  a  woman  saved  from  worse  than  death  by  him 
that  night. 

So,  although  the  first  faint  streaks  of  the  dawn  were 
in  the  skies  when  they  came  to  the  village  of  Attegat,  he 
trod  on  briskly,  for  love  animated  him,  the  warmth  of  it 
flooded  his  breast  and  nerved  his  limbs. 

He  eased  her  from  the  tired  horse  and  rapped  upon  the 
door  of  Pere  Leclair's  stone  house. 

"They  will  not  find  you  here,  dearest.  They  will  not 
dare  to  disturb  you  here.  To-morrow  we  shall  take 
counsel  and  make  you  safe." 

"Who  is  below?"  asked  the  voice  of  the  good  priest, 
his  face  at  the  window  of  the  tiny  gable. 

"A  poor  little  girl  who  seeks  sanctuary,  father.  It  is 
Evangeline  Beaulieu.  She  has  been  in  sad  trouble.  It 
will  all  be  told  to  you." 

14  197 


THE    RED    LANE 

Until  the  priest  came  to  open  the  door  Aldrich  stood 
with  the  girl  folded  in  his  arms,  looking  into  the  eyes  she 
raised  to  his,  her  face  lighted  by  the  first  rays  of  the  gray 
dawn.  And  when  they  heard  shuffling  slippers  in  the 
hall  and  Father  Leclair's  anxious  hail  to  his  old  house 
keeper,  she  put  her  arms  around  her  lover's  neck,  drew 
his  face  to  hers,  and  kissed  him  with  lingering  tender 
ness. 

"I  have  said  no  words  of  thanks  to  you,  my  precious 
knight,  my  lord,"  she  said.  "I'll  not  profane  a  great 
deed  with  words.  I'll  live  a  life  of  thanks  to  you,  of  de 
votion.  For  I  love  you!"  Her  tones  thrilled. 

"  Darling,  a  pearl  of  great  price  does  not  need  to  thank 
the  man  who  is  happy  enough  to  possess  it,  if  that  man 
follows  a  thief  who  has  stolen  his  pearl,"  he  answered. 

Then  he  gave  her  into  the  care  of  the  good  father,  re 
leasing  her  hands  tenderly  and  regretfully. 

"It  shall  be  told  to  you  to-morrow,  Pdre  Leclair.  It 
is  a  bad  story  about  wicked  men." 

He  kissed  the  closed  door  after  she  had  gone. 

He  paced  to  and  fro  before  the  stone  house  until  the 
light  in  the  chamber  where  the  old  housekeeper  had  led 
her  had  been  snuffed  out.  The  patient  horse  waited,  his 
weary  head  hanging  in  slumber.  The  dogs  sat  in  a  circle, 
eyeing  this  new  master  wistfully. 

They  followed  at  his  heels  when  he  trudged  away  down 
the  village  street.  All  was  still  about  Notary  Gendreau's 
house.  But  the  tavern-keeper  of  Attegat  was  astir,  for 
one  must  be  early  at  work  around  a  tavern. 

"Take  those  dogs  to  the  stable  along  with  the  horse," 
directed  Aldrich,  to  whom  the  landlord  had  bowed  re 
spectfully  and  cordially,  recognizing  a  regular  guest. 
"And  look,  Lajeunesse!  Give  them  right  now  the  best 
meal  a  dog  ever  ate.  Dip  deep  in  your  ice-chest.  When 

IQ8 


THE    SEVEN    DOGS   OF   WAR 

the  market  is  open  go  across  and  buy  seven  of  the  best 
bones  in  the  shop." 

He  gazed  into  their  upraised  eyes  affectionately. 

"I'm  sorry  that  man's  generosity  can't  do  more  for  a 
dog!" 

He  went  along  the  line  of  hounds  and  patted  each  on 
the  head. 

"Good  boys!"  he  declared,  and  his  voice  broke  with 
weariness  and  thankfulness.  He  added,  tenderly,  not 
minding  the  landlord's  curious  scrutiny,  "If  I  wasn't  so 
dead  tired  I'd  stay  up  and  make  an  after-dinner  speech 
to  you." 

"There's  blood  on  your  face — and  by  the  looks  there 
might  have  been  some  in  your  eye,  awhile  back  this 
night,"  observed  Napoleon  Lajeunesse.  "You  have 
catch  some  pretty  bad  smugglers,  hey?  You  take  the 
dogs  to  'em,  eh?" 

"Yes,"  smiled  Aldrich,  as  he  turned  to  enter  the  tavern. 
"They  were  trying  to  run  something  more  precious  than 
rubies  across  the  border." 


XVI 


THE  TRAIL  OF  VETAL  BEAULIEU 


LDRICH  rode  to  the  edge  of  Father  Le- 
clair's  garden-plot,  and  the  priest  left  his 
beets  and  came  tiptoeing  across  the 
crumbly  earth. 

"Is  she  still  asleep,  Father  Leclair?" 
"Yes,  my  son.  Mother  Bissette  has 
been  crawling  about  the  house  all  morning  as  carefully 
as  a  caterpillar  on  a  vine.  You  see,  even  I  tiptoe  across 
the  ground  outside  as  I  tiptoed  indoors.  Sleep  will  do 
much  for  her.  Ah,  my  son,  she  is  a  brave  girl!  She  has 
a  heroine's  spirit." 

"You  should  have  seen  her  when  I  found  her,  good 
father !  All  the  rest  of  the  horrible  business  of  last  night 
is  pretty  much  nightmare.  I  came  out  of  it  as  one  wakes 
up  from  a  bad  dream.  It  has  steadied  me,  remembering 
how  she  behaved." 

The  priest  glanced  furtively  at  a  curtained  window  in 
the  stone  house. 

"It  was  all  very  brave.  It  was  like  a  page  from  a 
romance.  She  told  me,  and  there  was  a  wonderful  light 
in  her  eyes  when  she  talked  of  what  you  did,  but  I  think 
you  saw  it  there  yourself,  my  son,  before  you  parted  from 
her.  Yes,  it  was  all  very  brave,  but  it  is  very  serious. 
There  were  shots.  It  was  battle,  eh?" 

"I  had  no  other  way  out  of  it.  I  fired  to  keep  them 
back.  I  fired  high — at  random." 

200 


THE    TRAIL   OF    BEAULIEU 

The  priest  was  regarding  the  officer  with  earnestness 
and  some  curiosity.  Aldrich  wore  a  riding-suit  of  gray 
tweed,  and  a  felt  hat  had  replaced  his  badged  cap. 

"I  have  been  into  my  trunk  at  the  tavern,  Father 
Leclair.  I  am  riding  on  my  own  business  for  a  time." 

He  glanced  in  his  turn  at  the  window  where  the  curtain 
was  drawn. 

"I  do  not  think  they  will  disturb  her  again,  but — " 

"She  shall  stay  with  Mother  Bissette  until  there  is  less 
riot — less  recklessness  on  this  border,"  declared  the  priest, 
with  decision.  "Daytimes  she  will  be  safe  with  her 
scholars  up  there  under  the  trees.  Nights  she  shall  be 
under  the  roof  of  the  stone  house.  They  will  not  at 
tempt — they  will  not  dare!" 

Aldrich  threw  up  his  arm  and  clinched  his  fist  slowly. 

"I  have  grabbed  upon  a  thistle — I  am  going  to  crush 
it,  Father  Leclair.  That  is  why  I  am  riding  on  my  own 
business.  I  am  going  to  clear  this  matter  up,  now  that 
I  have  started  in  on  it." 

Pere  Leclair  peered  up  at  him  uneasily  from  under  the 
brim  of  his  broad  hat. 

"Only  good-fortune — a  lucky  accident — the  hounds  of 
a  half-witted  vagrant — gave  me  my  chance  to  save 
Evangeline  last  night.  I  don't  propose  to  have  her  tor 
tured  every  hour  of  the  day  by  anxiety — her  nights  full 
of  fear.  For  myself,  I  don't  intend  to  skulk.  So  I'm 
going  to  hunt  up  Vetal  Beaulieu  and  make  him  understand 
that  I  have  an  honest  man's  right  to  love  his  daughter. 
The  thing  must  be  settled,  Father  Leclair." 

The  priest  shook  his  head.  "You  have  a  young  man's 
impatience;  as  an  old  man  I  fear  it  will  lead  you  into 
trouble,  my  son." 

"And  yet,"  insisted  Aldrich,  "to  leave  this  thing  hang 
ing  as  it  is  is  intolerable.  There  can  be  no  comfort  for 

201 


THE    RED    LANE 

poor  Evangeline  nor  peace  of  mind  for  me  until  I  have 
seen  Vetal  Beaulieu.  No,  Pere  Leclair,  I  do  not  know 
what  I'm  going  to  say  to  him,"  he  cried,  replying  to  a 
look  in  the  priest's  eyes.  "But  after  what  happened  last 
night  I'm  certain  that  my  love  for  Evangeline  will  give 
me  a  tongue,  at  least;  it  has  already  given  me  courage  and 
strength,  good  father.  I  may  be  imprudent  in  what  I 
am  going  to  do.  But  yesterday  I  came  near  wrecking  my 
life  and  hers,  too,  by  being  too  prudent.  I  swore  that 
after  this  I  would  go  straight  to  a  thing  and  gallop  hard. 
So  I'm  going  to  Vetal  Beaulieu.  These  are  not  the  sort 
of  days  when  a  man  can  persecute  his  own  daughter  and 
help  a  renegade  to  ruin  her.  Tell  her,  Father  Leclair, 
that  I  have  gone  to  her  father  for  the  sake  of  both  of  us. 
I'm  going  to  make  him  understand 

As  though  he  feared  that  the  priest  might  try  to  dis 
suade  him,  he  slapped  his  horse  and  rode  away,  his  eyes 
caressing  the  curtained  window  until  he  had  turned  the 
corner  of  the  house. 

Aldrich  displayed  no  hesitation  when  he  came  to  the 
narrow  road  which  led  to  the  north.  He  sent  his  horse 
cantering  along  its  shady  stretches.  The  sun  was  over 
head,  and  his  rifle  was  at  his  back,  and  determination  was 
in  his  heart.  His  face  was  haggard,  for  he  had  slept  but 
little.  Impatience  had  driven  him  early  from  his  bed  at 
the  tavern.  He  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to  roll  the  bur 
den  of  fear  from  the  girl's  heart.  He  sought  Vetal  Beau- 
lieu  at  the  place  where  he  had  seen  him  last,  resolved  to 
follow  along  his  trail  until  he  could  meet  him  face  to  face, 
under  the  frank  sunshine,  for  a  man's  talk. 

Suddenly  he  met  Attorney  Louis  Blais  on  the  narrow 
road.  That  participant  in  the  affair  of  the  evening  be 
fore  was  riding  a  horse  whose  galled  shoulders  showed 
that  it  was  more  accustomed  to  the  plow  than  the  saddle. 

202 


THE    TRAIL   OF    BEAULIEU 

Blais  was  sullen  and  uneasy  when  Aldrich  halted  him. 
He  had  not  recognized  the  officer  until  they  were  almost 
side  by  side. 

"Which  way  did  Vetal  Beaulieu  go  this  morning,  Mr. 
Blais?"  inquired  Aldrich,  curtly  and  with  the  authority 
of  one  who  intends  to  be  answered. 

"I  haven't  any  information  for  you  about  Mr.  Beau- 
lieu  or  any  one  else,"  returned  the  surly  lawyer.  To 
cover  other  emotions  he  assumed  an  air  and  a  tone  of 
unnatural  dignity.  He  talked  like  one  reciting  from  a 
text-book. 

"You  will  remember  that  I  found  you  playing  a  strong 
part  in  a  vile  plot  last  night,  sir.  You'd  better  be  civil. 
There  is  a  bar  association  in  this  county,  and  decent 
lawyers  won't  stand  for  abduction." 

"Look  here!  I  was  invited  to  perform  a  civil  mar 
riage.  The  license  had  been  procured.  The  only  sur 
viving  parent  of  the  young  lady  was  there  to  give  her 
away.  The  affair  was  interrupted  by  a  person  who  had 
not  the  least  right  to  interfere.  If  that  person  now  pro 
poses  to  make  talk  about  the  thing  he'll  show  almighty 
poor  judgment.  How  will  that  talk  sound?  He  ought 
to  realize  that  he  has  just  as  much  reason  to  keep  still 
as  the  aggrieved  and  injured  parties."  Blais  delivered 
this  angrily. 

"I  have  important  business  with  Beaulieu.  I  say, 
you'd  better  tell  me  which  way  he  went." 

"Not  desiring  to  be  a  party  to  the  assassination  of  Mr. 
Beaulieu  by  a  person  who  seems  to  have  motive  and  the 
intention,"  stated  the  attorney,  with  stiff  insolence,  going 
as  far  as  he  dared  with  this  young  man  of  the  haggard 
face  and  the  burning  eyes,  "I  shall  keep  my  mouth 
closed."  His  lips  worked,  however,  and  it  was  plain  that 
he  wanted  to  curse  this  hateful  adversary  with  all  the 

203 


THE    RED    LANE 

venom  that  was  in  him;  he  refrained  with  the  usual 
caution  of  Louis  Blais  when  he  found  himself  up  against 
odds.  He  curbed  his  anger  and  confined  himself  to 
stilted  retort,  as  though  he  were  addressing  a  court. 

Aldrich  had  placed  his  horse  across  the  narrow  road. 

"Why  are  you  holding  me  up  here?"  demanded  Blais. 
"Have  you  added  highway  robbery  to  the  rest  of  your 
desperate  deeds?" 

The  officer  snapped  scornful  rejoinder  and  rode  on, 
resisting  an  impulse  to  slap  Attorney  Blais's  sour  face. 

After  a  time  Aldrich  came  to  the  house  where  the 
dramatic  scene  of  the  night  before  had  been  enacted. 
There  was  no  sign  of  life  there.  The  doors  were  open, 
the  windows  were  bare  of  curtains,  and  much  of  the  glass 
was  broken.  The  appearance  of  the  place  showed  that 
the  house  had  been  deserted  for  years.  In  the  daylight 
he  saw  that  the  clearing  had  grown  up  to  bushes.  This 
was  the  lonesome  place  which  had  been  chosen  for  the 
wedding  of  Evangeline  Beaulieu!  He  rode  close  to  the 
door  and  peered  in.  Only  dust  and  decay  and  silence! 

He  went  on  pondering. 

Blais  had  given  him  a  hint  that  they  who  had  been 
witnesses  and  actors  in  the  affair  did  not  intend  to  talk. 
Aldrich  had  not  expected  that  they  would.  He  under 
stood,  however,  that  the  "stand-off"  had  created  a  situa 
tion  which,  as  he  had  told  the  priest,  was  intolerable. 
Also,  as  he  had  informed  the  priest,  he  was  not  sure  what 
he  would  say  to  Vetal  Beaulieu.  He  understood  the  prej 
udices  of  the  man  to  their  depths.  But  there  was  the 
story  of  Bessie  Macpherson !  He  should  demand  of  Beau- 
lieu  that  the  story  be  investigated.  And  he  had  decided 
that  if  Vetal  Beaulieu  did  not  take  a  father's  proper  atti 
tude  after  that  in  this  matter  of  the  protection  of  a  good 
daughter,  he  would  know  what  to  say  in  behalf  of  the  love 

204 


of  Norman  Aldrich  for  Evangeline  Beaulieu.  Thus  he 
pondered  as  he  rode  on,  determined  to  hunt  up  Vetal 
Beaulieu  for  a  talk,  man  to  man. 

He  drew  one  comforting  inference  from  the  return  of 
Attorney  Blais  to  Attegat,  unaccompanied.  The  band  of 
conspirators  had  broken  up.  It  was  plain  that  they  had 
no  heart  for  further  violent  measures  at  that  time.  That 
Blais  would  serve  them  as  a  spy  and  adviser,  that  Roi 
was  still  determined  to  prevail — of  those  facts  Aldrich 
was  assured  by  his  apprehensions.  This  was  not  truce; 
it  was  sullen  delay.  He  felt  that  he  had  all  the  more 
reason  for  insisting  on  an  interview  with  Vetal  Beaulieu. 
He  must  impress  on  that  obstinate  parent  that  this  was 
not  a  case  of  compelling  a  girl  to  obey  a  father's  promise 
and  command;  it  was  wilful  wrecking  of  innocence  and 
happiness.  As  he  reflected  on  the  matter,  as  he  remem 
bered  what  the  fiddler  had  told  him,  he  could  not  believe 
that  Vetal  Beaulieu  would  persist  in  his  determination 
in  regard  to  the  unspeakable  Roi.  Vetal  Beaulieu,  in 
spite  of  his  grudges,  his  temper,  his  jealous  ignorance, 
was  Evangeline' s  father!  The  thought  that  he  was  such, 
and  must  have  real  affection  for  her  under  all  his  turbu 
lent  emotions,  encouraged  Aldrich  as  he  journeyed  and 
pondered.  The  man  must  listen  to  him!  Sense  and  rea 
son  and  regard  for  decency  must  prevail  when  a  man  is 
a  father! 

At  last  he  came  out  of  the  narrow  lane  and  was  on  the 
broad  Canadian  highway. 

Here  and  there,  now  at  a  forge,  now  of  some  wayside 
toiler,  he  asked  for  news  of  Vetal  Beaulieu.  He  got  no 
information.  If  Vetal  had  gone  toward  the  south  by 
the  broad  highway  he  had  passed  in  the  night  or  had 
passed  unobserved.  But  the  men  whom  he  asked  eyed 
him  with  curiosity  and  gossiped  after  he  had  passed  on. 

205 


THE    RED   LANE 

Was  not  this  one  of  the  customs  men  without  his  uniform  ? 
What  was  Vetal  Beaulieu  of  Monarda  doing  in  the  north 
country,  and  why  was  an  officer  on  his  trail  ? 

Aldrich  explored  side-roads.  He  asked  questions  with 
assiduity;  the  apprehension  that  he  was  leaving  Beaulieu 
behind,  that  the  father  was  between  him  and  the  girl 
for  whose  sake  he  had  taken  the  road,  disquieted  him. 
He  searched  with  care.  He  wanted  to  feel  sure  that 
Beaulieu  was  ahead. 

Buthe  gotno  information  until  he  arrived  atCyr's  tavern. 

Aldrich  had  ridden  widely,  had  searched  deviously. 
The  twilight  shrouded  the  big  hill  when  he  came  at  last 
to  Cyr's  tavern.  That  had  been  the  rendezvous!  He 
looked  eagerly  at  the  wayfarers  who  were  smoking  in  the 
big  room.  Beaulieu  was  not  there.  Roi  was  not  in  sight. 
To  be  sure,  he  had  scarcely  expected  that  Roi  and  Vetal 
would  hurry  back  to  this  place;  but  they  had  met  there 
to  plot — they  might  be  there  to  wait  for  further  oppor 
tunity. 

Felix  Cyr — Bullhead  Cyr — shaggy  and  lowering,  sat 
behind  the  little  counter  under  which  he  kept  his  stock 
of  liquors. 

Aldrich  had  given  his  weary  horse  into  the  hands  of 
the  stable  boy. 

Cyr  scowled,  recognizing  a  foe  when  Aldrich  crossed 
the  room. 

"It  is  late,  but  may  I  have  supper,  sir?" 

"Maybe  you  can  go  and  hunt  up  a  maid  and  coax  her 
to  unlock  the  cupboard  if  you  have  money  and  a  glib 
tongue,"  stated  the  landlord,  brusquely. 

The  officer  leaned  over  the  counter  and  put  an  inquiry 
in  a  low  tone. 

Cyr  bellowed  a  reply  which  took  all  in  the  room  into 
his  confidence. 

206 


THE   TRAIL   OF    BEAULIEU 

"No,  M'ser  Vetal  Beaulieu  of  Monarda  is  not  at  my 
house  this  night."  It  was  insulting  disregard  of  a  guest's 
desire  to  keep  his  affairs  from  the  ears  of  others. 

"Do  you  know  whether  he  has  gone  toward  home?" 
asked  Aldrich,  keeping  his  temper  down  and  his  voice 
low.  "I  know  he  has  been  at  your  house  within  a  day 
or  so." 

"You  will  tell  me  what  business  you  have  with  my 
friend  Vetal  Beaulieu  before  I  tell  you  where  he  has 
gone,"  declared  Cyr.  "You  do  not  wear  that  cap  with 
the  old  hen  of  the  United  States  on  it  this  time,  but  I 
know  you.  Why  do  you  chase  my  good  friend  down  the 
border?"  He  shouted  this  retort,  looking  at  the  men  in 
the  room  with  an  air  which  suggested  that  Felix  Cyr  de 
sired  to  show  that  he  would  never  demean  himself  by 
holding  secret  conference  with  a  customs  man. 

Aldrich  straightened. 

"I  do  not  go  around  exposing  the  private  business  of 
M'ser  Beaulieu  and  myself  to  all  listeners,  sir.  I  asked 
you  a  square  question  as  politely  as  I  could.  I'd  like  a 
straight  answer." 

"My  friend  Vetal  Beaulieu  has  gone  away  from  here 
and  is  very  busy  minding  his  own  business.  It  is  a 
good  plan.  It  pays  me;  maybe  you  can  make  it  pay 
you." 

Aldrich  turned  away  from  the  counter.  His  nerves 
were  not  in  the  best  condition.  The  preceding  hours 
of  the  night  and  the  day  had  been  too  full  of  tribulation. 
He  was  afraid  that  if  he  remained  longer  at  the  counter, 
looking  at  Cyr,  he  would  leap  over  it  and  cuff  that  puffy, 
scowling  face. 

"I  don't  know  as  there's  any  great  secret  about  Vetal 
Beaulieu,"  remarked  one  of  the  men  in  the  room,  a  bearded 
giant  who  sat  on  the  end  of  the  "deacon  seat"  near  the 

207 


THE    RED    LANE 

grimy  wall  of  the  room.     "  I  met  him  a  dozen  miles  or  so 
below  here  to-day  when  I  was  driving  up." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  the  officer.  "Can  you  tell  me 
whether  he  was  on  his  way  home  to  Monarda?" 

"  I  reckon  your  friend  Beaulieu  was  headed  for  the  hive," 
returned  the  bearded  man,  with  a  sneer  in  his  laugh. 
"He  had  collected  his  honey.  He  was  leading  three 
horses  behind  his  buckboard,  and  a  half-dozen  cows  were 
ahead  of  him.  On  the  buckboard  he  had  hens  and  shotes 
in  crates.  I  get  it  from  the  people  along  the  way  that 
Friend  Beaulieu  had  been  realizing  on  his  bills  of  sale," 
he  went  on,  for  the  benefit  of  his  listeners.  "He  came 
down  on  folks  who  owed  him,  and  he  was  in  a  state  of 
mind  where  there  was  no  arguing  with  him.  If  a  man 
couldn't  pay,  he  took  what  there  was  in  sight — even  down 
to  the  children's  pet  bantams.  If  a  man  who  owed  him 
didn't  have  collateral  in  sight,  Vetal  left  word  that  he 
would  send  an  officer  with  an  execution  running  against 
the  body.  He  certainly  was  in  a  fine  condition  to  do  col 
lecting  without  fear  or  favor.  I'm  glad  I  wasn't  owing 
him  anything.  I  would  have  had  to  walk.  He  would 
have  had  my  team  away  from  me." 

Aldrich  believed  he  understood  what  had  provoked 
Vetal  Beaulieu's  rage  against  humanity  in  general.  Help 
less  victims  had  been  atoning  vicariously  because  Vetal 
Beaulieu  could  not  expend  the  frenzy  of  his  fury  on  the 
man  who  had  stirred  all  the  gall  of  his  unstable  tempera 
ment. 

"I  don't  know  what  the  nature  of  your  business  with 
him  may  be,"  continued  the  informant,  ironically.  "I 
believe  I  just  heard  you  drop  a  gentle  hint  that  no  one 
had  better  ask  you.  But  if  it  is  anything  that  can  wait, 
you'd  better  wait.  You  tackle  him  now  and  you'll  have 
to  talk  business  between  punches." 

208 


THE   TRAIL   OF    BEAULIEU 

Aldrich  went  away  thoughtfully  to  hunt  up  a  maid 
who  could  be  bribed  to  furnish  him  with  food.  He  was 
not  encouraged  by  the  report  the  bearded  man  had  given 
him. 

He  mounted  his  horse  in  the  early  morning,  conscious 
that  Felix  Cyr  was  surveying  him  with  suspicion  and 
curiosity  from  under  his  shaggy  brows.  The  sturdy  land 
lord  stood  straddled  on  his  porch,  jingling  the  coins  which 
Aldrich  had  just  tossed  into  his  palm. 

"So  you  go  to  chase  Vetal  Beaulieu,  eh?" 

"I'll  return  your  courtesy  of  last  evening,  sir.  I  am 
busy  minding  my  own  business.  It  is  a  good  plan.  Per 
haps  it  will  pay  you  to  do  so." 

He  was  fully  aware  that  Cyr  shouted  strong  language 
after  him;  but  he  was  not  tempted  to  make  retort.  He 
was  saving  his  man's  spirit  for  Beaulieu,  for  after  what 
he  had  learned  he  understood  that  he  needed  it  all.  He 
rode  on  resolutely,  nevertheless. 

After  a  time  he  came  upon  the  trail  of  the  vengeful 
creditor.  That  trail  was  twenty-four  hours  old,  but  it 
was  still  hot;  men  whom  he  asked  concerning  Vetal 
Beaulieu  cursed  volubly  and  pointed  to  the  south.  Yes, 
he  had  gone  that  way !  He  had  taken  away  the  only  cow; 
and  the  children  had  cried  themselves  to  sleep  last 
night.  He  had  led  away  the  horse,  and  how  could  the 
grass  be  mowed  or  the  fields  of  potatoes  be  cleared  of 
weeds?  Yes,  and  how  could  the  family  go  to  church  on 
Sunday?  That  man  who  would  not  listen  to  excuses  or 
promises  or  prayers,  he  had  taken  bread  from  their 
mouths  and  the  comforts  of  their  religion  from  their 
souls.  Complaints  and  threats  and  dolorous  despair 
dinned  Aldrich's  ears  as  often  as  he  ventured  to  ask  if 
Vetal  Beaulieu  had  passed  that  way.  And  he  was  coming 
back  for  the  bodies  of  those  men  who  could  not  pay! 

209 


THE    RED    LANE 

Ah,  surely  the  devil  himself  had  suddenly  taken  the  form 
of  Beaulieu  of  Monarda  and  had  set  out  to  persecute 
the  poor  people!  Aldrich  listened  and  rode  south,  his 
hopes  waning,  but  his  determination  growing  bitterly 
strong. 

The  repetition  of  this  grief  and  rage  proved  unendurable 
at  last.  The  young  man  was  sure  that  Vetal  was  headed 
for  Monarda  with  his  spoil.  He  had  had  a  day's  start, 
and  even  though  he  would  journey  slowly,  leading  his 
horses  and  driving  his  cows,  he  must  be  near  home,  so 
Aldrich  decided.  He  gave  his  horse  loose  rein  and  asked 
no  more  questions.  He  took  the  shortest  route  to  Mon 
arda  clearing. 

But  it  was  late  in  the  day  when  he  arrived  there.  He 
had  been  forced  to  linger  here  and  there  by  the  wayside 
gates  to  hear  men  curse  and  women  lament. 

The  windows  of  Beaulieu's  Place  were  shuttered  and 
barred.  The  big  door  was  padlocked. 

A  cripple,  a  misshapen  man  with  crooked  legs  and 
shoulders  hunched  to  his  ears,  hobbled  from  the  barn, 
a  pitchfork  in  his  hands. 

"  No,  he  is  not  at  home  yet,"  said  the  man,  in  the  peevish 
tones  of  the  dwarf,  when  Aldrich  asked  a  question.  "I 
cannot  sell  you  drink.  I  have  no  key  to  the  house.  I 
live  in  the  barn." 

He  hopped  in  out  of  sight  with  the  celerity  of  a  trap 
door  spider  and  slammed  the  tie-up  door  behind  him. 

The  young  man  allowed  his  horse  to  crop  the  short 
grass  of  the  yard  and  sat  down  to  wait.  There  was  a 
bench  just  outside  the  door. 

Thrushes  lilted  their  twilight  songs  in  the  trees  near 
by;  there  were  bird-calls  in  the  deep  woods  that  sounded 
like  the  tinkle  of  silver  bells.  The  horse  reaped  his  mouth- 
fuls  of  grass  with  mellow  rendings  of  the  tender  stalks 

210 


THE    TRAIL    OF    BEAULIEU 

and  stamped  away  the  flies.  All  these  sounds  only  ac 
centuated  the  peaceful  hush. 

But  it  seemed  to  Aldrich  that  there  was  something 
ominous  in  the  silence  of  this  place  which  was  usually  so 
noisy.  Waiting  outside  the  door  of  a  friend's  house 
when  it  is  empty  gives  one  a  wistful  sense  of  gloom;  the 
vacant  shell  of  an  enemy's  castle  is  more  portentous. 
And  the  young  man  was  straining  his  ears  to  catch  the 
sound  of  Vetal  Beaulieu's  buckboard  wheels.  He  had 
hoped  to  meet  up  with  Beaulieu  in  the  open — out  among 
men  where  the  presence  of  others  would  impress  con 
straint  upon  both,  compelling  them  to  speak  quietly  so 
that  others  might  not  hear,  to  act  with  discretion  so  that 
onlookers  might  not  quote.  The  thought  occurred  to 
Aldrich  that  this  meeting  on  Beaulieu's  own  ground  might 
be  a  collision  rather  than  a  conference.  He  questioned 
his  prudence  in  forcing  such  a  contretemps.  Then  he  took 
fresh  hold  on  his  determination,  thought  upon  the  woeful 
plight  of  Evangeline,  beset  by  her  fears  of  further  violence, 
and  settled  himself  down  on  the  bench  to  wait. 

The  padlock  showed  that  Vetal  was  not  within.  A  lit 
tle  spider  furnished  further  proof.  He  had  spun  in  the  cor 
ner  of  the  door  and  was  crouched  in  the  center  of  his  web. 

The  night  drew  on.  The  stars  winked  above  the 
spruces,  and  the  chill  from  Hagas  swamp  came  creeping 
across  the  clearing. 

Aldrich  realized  that  he  was  hungry.  He  strode  to  the 
barn  and  rapped  upon  the  tie-up  door. 

"I  do  not  sell  drink,"  snarled  the  dwarf  from  within. 
"I  have  no  key." 

"All  I  want  is  milk,"  declared  the  young  man.  "I 
will  give  you  a  half-dollar  for  a  tinful  with  a  bit  of  your 
bread." 

After  a  time  the  man  shoved  the  bread  and  milk  through 

211 


THE    RED    LANE 

the  half -opened  door,  snatched  his  coin,  and  slammed  the 
portal  savagely. 

When  the  officer  had  eaten  the  frugal  meal  he  smoked 
his  pipe  and  trudged  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  door, 
his  thoughts  busy  with  the  protests,  the  arguments,  and 
appeals  he  would  employ  with  Evangeline's  father.  The 
reflection  that  Roi  might  accompany  Vetal  did  not  intim 
idate  Aldrich  in  his  new  spirit.  His  rifle  was  on  his 
back,  his  soul  was  in  arms,  and  he  had  demonstrated  that 
he  proposed  to  fight  them  according  to  their  own  code. 

Furthermore,  that  they  would  go  as  far  as  actual  vio 
lence  when  he  faced  them  in  a  situation  where  the  pres 
ence  of  the  girl  did  not  complicate  matters,  he  did  not 
credit.  That  other  attack  on  him  at  Beaulieu's  Place  had 
been  fomented  by  desperation,  and  the  agent  was  a  drink- 
crazed  man.  It  had  been  an  attack  from  ambush,  and 
such  deeds  were  rare  on  the  border.  If  Roi  came,  so  much 
the  better!  He  would  charge  the  scoundrel  with  his  be 
trayal  of  Bessie  Macpherson,  and  would  challenge  him  to 
a  denial  in  the  presence  of  Vetal  Beaulieu.  So  he  tramped 
to  and  fro  and  pulled  savagely  at  his  pipe  and  waited. 
Now  and  then  there  was  the  sound  of  wheels  on  the  road. 
But  they  who  appeared  did  not  stop.  Even  the  straggling 
customers  of  the  place  seemed  to  know  that  the  doors 
were  shut  and  that  Beaulieu  was  away. 

At  the  corner  of  the  house  he  studied  his  watch  by  the 
light  of  the  stars.  Nearly  ten  o'clock. 

While  he  pondered  with  watch  in  his  hand  he  heard 
the  husky  lowing  of  cattle  down  the  road  to  the  east. 
His  man  must  be  approaching.  He  waited  in  the  shadows 
of  the  low  building. 

Cows  came  first.  They  dragged  themselves  wearily 
and  complained  with  deep-throated  mutterings.  There 
was  only  one  man  on  the  loaded  buckboard.  Horses 

212 


THE   TRAIL   OF    BEAULIEU 

jostled  behind  it  at  the  length  of  halter-ropes.  Aldrich 
mounted  and  rode  forth  to  meet  the  wagon. 

It  was  not  Vetal  Beaulieu,  this  driver.  He  was  a 
young  fellow,  and  he  stuttered,  and  his  tones  quavered 
when  he  replied  to  the  officer's  sharp  questioning. 

He  admitted  that  he  was  Beaulieu's  man  after  he  had 
incoherently  denied  that  he  was.  He  owned  up  that  he 
was  bringing  Beaulieu's  buckboard  home,  and  that  the 
cows  were  Beaulieu's  and  the  horses  were  Beaulieu's;  but 
this  information  was  wrung  from  him  piecemeal. 

"Look  here,  my  man,"  said  Aldrich,  suspecting  that 
he  understood  what  this  reticence  signified,  "I  am  not 
trying  to  prove  a  smuggling  case  against  you." 

"But  you  are  an  officer.  I  know  you.  You  do  not 
wear  your  cap,  but  I  know  you." 

"I  am  attending  to  my  personal  business  now.  I  am 
not  on  duty.  I  want  to  find  your  master." 

"I  don't  know  where  he  is." 

"But  where  did  you  leave  him?  Why  did  you  come 
on  alone?" 

"He  was  tired.  He  stayed  to  rest.  He  will  come  to 
morrow — yes,  I  think  he  will  come  to-morrow." 

But  where  Vetal  Beaulieu  had  stayed,  what  house  har 
bored  him  that  night,  urgent  questioning  did  not  elicit. 
The  man  was  dogged,  confused,  indefinite.  In  vain  did 
the  officer  protest  that  his  business  with  Beaulieu  was 
honest,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  customs,  concerned 
a  matter  in  which  Vetal  was  interested.  The  fellow  stam 
mered  evasions  and  became  querulously  angry  when 
Aldrich  tried  to  pin  him  down.  To  only  one  declaration 
did  he  stick  stubbornly:  Vetal  Beaulieu  would  not  come 
to  Monarda  clearing  that  night. 

So  Aldrich,  muttering  some  uncomplimentary  remarks, 
touched  his  horse  with  the  spurs  and  gave  vent  to  his 
15  2I3 


THE    RED    LANE 

impatience  by  galloping  away.  The  ominous  stillness  of 
that  deserted  house  had  got  onto  his  nerves. 

He  rode  back  toward  the  east,  along  the  road  by  which 
the  man  had  arrived.  He  rode  aimlessly,  hoping  that  he 
would  fall  upon  some  information  which  would  lead  him 
to  the  man  he  wanted.  His  desire  to  meet  Beaulieu  and 
settle  the  matters  between  them  had  been  whetted  by 
delays;  circumstances  and  difficulties  had  not  moderated 
his  determination. 

At  least,  he  pondered,  he  could  seek  shelter  somewhere 
along  the  road,  and  he  could  return  to  Monarda  in  the 
morning. 

For  some  miles  the  forest  hemmed  the  highway.  There 
were  no  clearings  and  no  houses.  Farther  on,  he  passed 
through  a  little  settlement,  but  the  houses  were  small 
and  mean  and  promised  only  wretched  lodgings.  He 
had  come  to  Monarda  by  one  road  from  the  north;  he 
decided  to  try  another  thoroughfare,  for  it  was  plain  that 
he  had  missed  Beaulieu's  trail  when  he  had  given  over 
asking  questions. 

The  forest  skirted  this  road,  also,  and  he  went  on  slow 
ly,  favoring  his  horse. 

The  moon,  pared  to  gibbous  three-fourths,  rose  at  last. 
He  put  his  horse  to  the  trot.  It  seemed  silly  quest,  this 
search  for  Vetal  Beaulieu  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when 
undoubtedly  Vetal  was  snoring  in  some  farm-house;  he 
decided  to  hurry  on  and  seek  lodging  at  the  first  house 
that  seemed  respectable. 

The  moonlight  makes  odd  shadows  in  a  woodland  road. 

He  stared  ahead  of  him  at  one  turn  and  was  not  cer 
tain  that  he  had  seen  living  objects.  He  peered  more 
closely  and  was  sure  that  the  objects  moved.  They 
passed  into  the  woods  at  one  side  of  the  highway,  and 
the  glimpse  he  secured  convinced  him  that  he  had  seen 

214 


THE   TRAIL   OF    BEAULIEU 

two  men  on  horseback.     If  they  were  men  they  had  re 
tired  from  the  road  at  sight  of  him. 

The  shifty  young  man  at  Monarda  had  not  satisfied 
Aldrich  in  regard  to  Beaulieu's  movements.  Men  had 
passed  the  place  while  he  had  waited  for  the  return  of  the 
publican.  Perhaps  in  some  manner  Beaulieu  had  learned 
that  an  unwelcome  caller  was  waiting  before  the  barred 
door.  It  would  be  like  Beaulieu  to  shirk  an  interview, 
the  nature  of  which  he  suspected.  If  those  were  horse 
men  yonder  they  had  displayed  stealth.  They  were  not 
the  usual  belated  wayfarers  of  the  country-side  proceeding 
on  legitimate  business.  These  reflections  and  others  hur 
ried  through  the  mind  of  the  anixous  officer.  Beaulieu 
at  Monarda,  with  open  doors  and  surrounded  by  his 
friends,  might  not  be  an  easy  man  to  approach  for  such 
an  interview  as  Aldrich  required  of  him.  If  that  were 
Beaulieu  coming  on  horseback,  he  had  believed  that  the 
return  of  the  buckboard  would  send  away  a  disappointed 
suitor.  Yes,  that  would  be  like  Beaulieu,  the  officer  de 
cided.  That  mode  of  procedure  suited  the  pattern  of  the 
man.  Aldrich  dauntlessly  proposed  to  himself  to  proceed 
on  the  supposition  that  this  midnight  skulker  was  Beau- 
lieu.  That  was  a  good  place  to  meet  a  man  on  the  matter 
for  which  he  had  come— out  under  the  stars,  face  to  face 
in  the  open ;  that  was  the  place  for  man's  talk !  He  would 
be  Vetal  Beaulieu,  the  father,  there,  instead  of  Vetal 
Beaulieu,  the  usurer,  the  smuggler,  the  landlord  of  Beau 
lieu's  Place! 

Aldrich  halted  his  horse. 

"Ho,  M'ser  Beaulieu!"  he  shouted.  "If  that  is  you, 
sir,  I  have  business  with  you!" 

He  listened  while  his  voice  echoed  among  the  trees. 
He  got  no  answer. 

"It  is  important,  sir.     I  have  things  to  tell  you." 

215 


THE    RED    LANE 

He  waited  a  few  moments  and  then  rode  on.  He  had 
certainly  seen  men  on  horseback!  He  kept  on  until  he 
came  to  the  place  where  he  had  seen  them  turn  from  the 
road.  The  moonlight  showed  the  fresh  tracks  of  horses' 
hoofs.  There  was  no  lane  by  which  they  could  have 
made  a  detour.  They  must  be  near  at  hand.  In  his 
eagerness  to  fulfil  his  mission  Aldrich  did  not  pause  to 
weigh  consequences. 

"M'ser  Beaulieu!  I  have  come  in  friendly  spirit!  I 
tell  you  freely  who  I  am.  I  am  Norman  Aldrich." 

The  men  were  near  at  hand.  While  he  waited  for  a 
reply  he  heard  the  whicker  of  a  horse. 

"If  I  have  made  a  mistake — if  this  is  not  M'ser  Beau- 
lieu,  please  tell  me  so,  gentlemen.  I  will  go  on  about  my 
business." 

Staring  into  the  gloom  under  the  trees  he  saw  the 
quick  spurting  of  sparks  before  the  sounds  reached  him; 
then  a  revolver  cracked  spitefully,  emptying  its  six  cham 
bers.  It  was  such  unprovoked,  cowardly  reply  to  his 
courteous  pleadings  that  he  could  not  muster  voice  to 
cry  protest.  No  bullets  reached  him.  It  was  probable 
that  they  were  wasted  in  the  trunks  of  the  trees  between 
him  and  the  man  who  had  fired.  But  the  brutal,  wanton 
intent  of  the  unknown  behind  that  revolver  was  plain. 
Such  despicable  ambush  stirs  the  meekest  to  fury.  His 
horse  began  to  leap  in  panic,  and  Aldrich  swung  his 
rifle  from  his  back. 

He  fired  once,  twice,  thrice,  and  when  his  horse  whirled 
and  galloped  on  toward  the  north  he  let  him  run. 

The  senselessness  of  this  encounter  made  him  all  the 
more  furious.  It  was  of  a  piece  with  the  affair  of  the 
night  before — blind  battle  in  the  dark.  At  least,  these 
unknown  miscreants  had  known  at  whom  they  were 
firing;  he  did  not  have  that  advantage.  He  felt  a  sort 

216 


THE   TRAIL    OF    BEAULIEU 

of  grim  satisfaction  when  he  reflected  that  he  had  re 
torted  in  the  same  language  they  had  employed.  Matters 
were  arriving  at  a  pretty  pass  on  the  border  when  bullets 
took  the  place  of  words !  It  was  borne  in  on  Aldrich  that 
he  had  come  upon  times  and  men  of  a  sort  the  old  days  in 
Acadia  had  not  known.  He  had  been  trusting  too  much 
in  tradition;  he  had  not  believed  that  assassins  were 
abroad  in  the  land  which  had  been  so  placid.  He  de 
cided  that  discretion  must  supplement  valor  after  that, 
even  when  a  man's  heart  is  hot  and  his  love  is  spurring 
him. 

When  he  had  ridden  a  few  miles,  a  pale  light  in  a  farm 
house  signaled  to  him.  He  found  a  mother  keeping  vigil 
beside  a  sick  child;  and  she  permitted  him  to  stable  his 
horse,  and  she  opened  the  door  of  the  fore-room  to  him. 

He  went  to  sleep  wondering  whether  Vetal  Beaulieu 
had  been  there  among  those  trees  and  had  attempted  that 
summary  way  of  eliminating  a  prospective  son-in-law. 

But  how  that  chance  encounter,  that  random  inter 
change  of  shots,  would  color  his  troubled  affairs  some 
day  he  did  not  dream  nor  apprehend. 


XVII 

THE    BITTER   WORD   FOR   ATTEGAT 

ORNING  —  fresh,    sparkling,    sun-bright 
morning — brings   new   counsel   and   bur 
nishes  courage  if  courage  has  been  tar 
nished    by    the    shadows    of    the    night 
before.     Evangeline's  lover  arose  and  re 
turned  to  Monarda! 
But  when  Aldrich  came  to  the  clearing  in  the  late  fore 
noon,  the  padlock  still  dangled  outside  the  door,  the  little 
spider  had  increased  the  size  of  his  web,  and  it  was  clear 
that  Beaulieu  had  not  come  home. 

The  cripple  snarled  through  a  crack  in  the  tie-up  door 
and  corroborated  what  the  padlock  and  the  spider's  web 
suggested.  The  sullen  young  man  had  gone  away,  so 
the  cripple  stated. 

Aldrich  sat  down  on  the  bench  and  waited.  Men 
straggled  past  and  eyed  him  with  some  curiosity.  Of 
those  who  came  from  the  east  he  inquired  whether  they 
had  any  news  of  Vetal  Beaulieu.  No,  they  had  no  news. 
They  merely  wished  that  Beaulieu  would  come  back  and 
open  up  his  place  so  that  a  thirsty  man  would  not  find 
the  Monarda  road  so  long  and  dusty. 

There  were  few  passers-by.  In  the  summer  days  of 
growing  things  men  were  in  the  fields.  Even  the  men 
who  traveled  the  Red  Lane  for  profit  found  better  em 
ployment  when  the  mowers  were  needed  and  the  crops 
were  ripening. 

218 


THE    BITTER    WORD 

Duty  called  to  Aldrich ;  he  had  spent  much  time  on  his 
own  affairs.  Disgust  at  this  tedious  waiting  overmastered 
desire  to  have  it  out  with  Beaulieu. 

In  the  early  afternoon  he  growled  and  shook  his  fist, 
in  his  indignation,  at  the  barred  door,  and  swung  him 
self  into  the  saddle.  He  rode  first  to  the  west  and  then 
took  the  long  highway  north  to  the  great  river.  He 
journeyed  toward  his  post,  and  decided  that  he  would 
soon  seek  another  opportunity  to  impress  upon  Vetal 
Beaulieu  the  necessity  of  revising  certain  plans  regarding 
the  wedding  of  Evangeline. 

On  the  long  road  folks  are  not  supercilious  or  reserved 
or  afraid  to  warm  up  to  those  whom  they  meet.  Acadians 
politely  doff  hats  to  all  strangers  and  smile;  men  hold 
up  and  chat  and  exchange  confidences  and  pass  on  and 
never  see  each  other  again. 

Therefore,  when  Aldrich  overtook  a  carriage  that  was 
slowly  dragging  up  a  hill  he  spoke  courteously  to  the 
passenger  therein.  The  passenger  was  a  priest.  He  an 
swered  rather  gingerly,  staring  at  the  stranger.  One 
could  understand  that  he  lacked  experience  in  the  free 
and  easy  ways  of  New  Acadia.  Aldrich  returned  his 
stare,  and  saw  that  the  priest  had  a  straight  mouth  with 
narrow  lips,  narrow  eyes,  and  above  these  a  straight,  un 
broken  line  of  eyebrows.  His  broad  face  was  crossed  by 
these  three  horizontal  lines,  and  between  the  lines  one 
could  read  stubborn  will  and  autocratic  obstinacy. 

It  was  unmistakably  the  face  of  an  Irishman;  and 
Aldrich  wondered  what  an  Irish  priest  could  have  for 
business  in  that  land  of  the  habitants. 

"You  are  not  a  Frenchman,  then,"  declared  the  priest, 
showing  fresh  interest  after  Aldrich  had  greeted  him. 

"I  am  one  of  the  customs  deputies  of  this  district;  my 
name  is  Aldrich." 

219 


THE    RED    LANE 

"I'm  glad  to  know  you,  sir,  seeing  that  I  am  carrying 
no  contraband."  The  priest  allowed  the  straight  lines 
to  curve  for  a  moment.  "I  am  Father  Horrigan.  I  am 
on  my  way  to  the  parish  of  Attegat.  I  have  been  trans 
ferred  there." 

He  stated  this  with  complacency,  without  visible  in 
dication  that  he  supposed  the  news  would  cause  any 
astonishment. 

Aldrich  gasped  an  ejaculation.  He  knew  that  Father 
Leclair  had  determined  to  brave  the  bishop  in  the  matter 
of  the  school;  but  that  this  breach  of  discipline  would 
entail  anything  except  a  rebuke  the  officer  had  not 
dreamed.  Father  Leclair  was  an  institution  in  Attegat. 
He  was  attached  to  his  people  as  an  oak  is  attached  to  its 
soil,  as  a  hill  is  attached  to  the  granite  which  supports  it. 
Who  could  conceive  of  the  parish  of  Attegat  without  Pere 
Leclair — father  of  his  people,  pastor  of  his  flock — living 
in  the  little  stone  house,  taking  the  tithes  at  the  big  door 
of  the  barn,  slying  out  the  doles  to  the  poor  folks  who 
came  humbly  and  thankfully  to  the  little  rear  door? 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  the  parish  of  Attegat?" 
asked  the  priest.  He  eyed  Aldrich's  manifest  consterna 
tion  with  considerable  curiosity. 

"I  do,  father.  But  this  is  hardly  credible — I  mean, 
I  am  confounded!  You  are  transferred  to  Attegat?" 

The  priest  bowed  his  head  stiffly.  He  did  not  relish 
this  outburst. 

"And  the  present  incumbent  is  ordered  to  go  to  Moose- 
horn  plantation — to  the  mission,"  he  said,  the  lines  of 
his  lips  straighter. 

"But  that  is  into  the  wilderness — in  the  backwoods — 
the  lumber  camps,"  faltered  the  officer. 

"I  believe  so.  The  mission  is  very  remote.  But  it  is 
to  be  made  a  matter  of  discipline,"  stated  the  priest, 

220 


THE    BITTER    WORD 

dryly.  "I  see  that  you  stare  at  me,  my  son.  Well,  the 
offense  which  has  been  committed  by  the  incumbent  is 
very  serious.  He  has  defied  diocesan  commands.  He  has 
persisted  in  that  defiance." 

He  had  spoken  harshly;  but  now  he  allowed  the 
straight  line  to  curve  once  more. 

"It  is  believed  that  the  parish  needs  discipline  as  well 
as  the  priest  who  has  rebelled  against  authority.  There 
fore  I  have  been  sent  up  here.  I  have  enemies  who  de 
clare  that  I  am  successful  in  matters  of  discipline — the 
unfounded  charge  of  enemies,  my  son!" 

After  this  flicker  of  irony  the  hard  lines  came  back  into 
his  face,  though  he  smiled  grimly. 

"So  that  is  why  a  man  by  the  name  of  Horrigan  has 
been  sent  north  to  Attegat,"  he  said. 

This  man  among  the  children  of  the  parish  of  Attegat! 
They  were  all  children,  even  those  whose  hair  was  white 
and  whose  limbs  were  feeble.  This  man  replacing  Pere  Le- 
clair,  who  had  petted  their  foibles,  indulged  their  whims, 
helped  them  to  nurse  their  griefs,  and  had  made  himself 
a  child  along  with  them!  Aldrich  was  aware  that  the 
expression  of  his  face  must  be  informing  Father  Horrigan 
that  this  news  was  the  news  of  disaster. 

"  It  may  not  be  as  bad  as  all  that,"  remarked  the  priest, 
his  keen  perception  translating  the  officer's  thoughts.  "I 
see  that  you  are  a  friend  of  the  incumbent,"  he  added. 

"  Does  Father  Leclair  know  that  he  is  to  be  taken  away 
from  his  parish?"  Aldrich  asked. 

"A  letter  from  the  vicar-general  has  gone  ahead  of 
me,"  stated  Father  Horrigan. 

"Then  it  is  settled — it  is  over;  he  has  no  chance  for 
appeal — to  explain?"  stammered  the  young  man,  his 
emotion  visible. 

"Res  judicata,  my  son!  Meaning  that  the  case  of  one 
221 


THE    RED    LANE 

who  has  defied  his  superiors  has  been  acted  on.  It  is 
settled." 

He  resumed  the  study  of  his  little  book  of  offices. 

They  were  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  Aldrich  urged  his 
horse  on  at  a  canter.  This  news  had  shocked  him.  His 
grief  was  deepened  by  his  sense  of  utter  helplessness.  He 
understood  through  what  difficult  avenues  must  appeal 
proceed.  And  yet,  more  than  all,  he  realized  what  a 
calamity  to  Attegat  would  the  loss  of  Father  Leclair 
prove  in  this  crisis  of  affairs  when  the  overwrought  peo 
ple  needed  to  be  coaxed  back  to  order  and  peace  and 
loyalty;  when  the  wise  prudence  of  the  good  priest 
would  prevail  in  the  end.  Of  that  outcome  of  Pere  Le- 
clair's  intercession  Aldrich  was  sure  in  his  own  mind. 
What  might  happen  when  the  militant  Father  Horrigan 
arrived  on  the  scene  and  began  his  programme  of  auto 
cratic  discipline  Aldrich  did  not  dare  to  guess.  But  he 
foresaw  tumult,  worse  rebellion. 

He  determined  to  reach  Attegat  ahead  of  the  new 
priest. 

When  night  came  on  he  found  lodging  at  one  of  the 
little  taverns  on  the  river  road,  and  was  on  his  way  north 
again  at  dawn. 

He  hastened  eagerly. 

In  the  afternoon  he  galloped  into  the  yard  of  the  stone 
house,  knotted  the  reins  about  the  tethering -rail,  and 
walked  to  the  door  with  the  aspect  and  the  woe  of  a 
mourner  who  walks  to  the  portal  of  a  tomb. 

Evangeline  opened  the  door  and  came  out  and  waited 
for  him  under  the  vines  of  the  little  porch. 

' '  You  have  heard !  Your  face  tells  me  you  have  heard, ' ' 
she  told  him,  sorrow  in  her  upraised  eyes. 

"The  new  priest  is  on  the  way.  I  overtook  him  yester 
day  on  the  long  road.  If  his  heart  is  as  hard  as  his  face 

222 


THE    BITTER    WORD 

— and  he  seemed  proud  to  boast  that  he  understood  mat 
ters  of  discipline — then  Attegat  is  going  to  have  a  master 
who  will  lay  on  the  lash.  Where  is  the  good  man?"  he 
asked,  solicitously. 

She  nodded  toward  the  door  of  the  little  study  across 
the  narrow  hall.  They  had  entered  the  house.  She 
could  not  control  her  voice  to  reply.  Tears  were  on  her 
cheeks. 

He  drew  her  to  him  and  stroked  her  hair. 

"One  moment,  sweetheart,  for  a  word  about  our  own 
troubles.  You  know  the  errand  I  went  on !  But  I  could 
not  find  your  father.  I  hunted  for  him  diligently.  I 
went  as  far  as  Monarda.  I  shall  go  again.  Keep  up 
good  courage.  You  will  be  watched  over  at  Madame 
Ouillette's  after  this,  and  I  shall  find  your  father  and  make 
him  understand." 

There  was  time  for  no  more  then,  for  Pere  Leclair 
opened  the  door  of  his  study. 

"What  shall  I  say  to  you?  What  can  I  say  to  you, 
good  Father  Leclair?"  asked  Aldrich,  sorrowfully. 

He  had  expected  to  find  the  little  father  of  Attegat 
broken  in  spirit,  sunk  in  woe,  overwhelmed  by  this 
disaster. 

Pere  Leclair  smiled! 

His  face  was  as  pale  as  his  hair  was  white,  and  weary 
lines  were  under  his  eyes;  but  he  smiled,  and  his  voice 
was  firm  when  he  greeted  the  young  man. 

He  supported  a  row  of  books  upon  one  of  his  arms. 

"Come  in,  my  son,"  he  invited.  "I  am  packing  my 
box.  I  have  plenty  of  time  for  a  talk  with  you.  There 
is  one  comfort  in  being  a  poor  priest;  one  little  box  holds 
all,  and  the  work  is  soon  done." 

' '  But  you  must  not  leave  us — something  must  be  done 
—they  do  not  understand!"  blazed  Aldrich,  passionately. 

223 


THE    RED    LANE 

"I  wrote  to  the  good  bishop — a  long  letter,  as  I  told 
you  I  should  write.  Yes,  it  seems  he  did  not  under 
stand." 

Aldrich  found  Representative  Clifford  striding  to  and 
fro  in  the  study. 

"This  is  damnable  outrage,  Aldrich,"  he  stormed.  "I 
have  seen  trouble  coming,  but  I  didn't  dream  it  would  go 
as  far  as  this.  Understand?  Of  course  they  don't  under 
stand.  They  are  taking  the  heart  out  of  a  body,  the 
brain  away  from  a  soul,  and  expect  the  body  to  live! 
That's  what  it  means  when  they  take  Father  Leclair  out 
of  this  parish!  The  people  here  haven't  realized  what 
he  has  meant  to  them.  They  have  been  growling  and 
muttering;  but  they  haven't  realized  that  Father  Leclair 
is  a  part  of  them,  part  of  their  souls  and  bodies !  They'll 
wake  up.  But  they'll  wake  up  too  late." 

Pere  Leclair  tucked  the  books  into  the  box. 

"Perhaps  my  way  with  them  has  not  been  the  good 
way,  after  all,"  he  said,  mildly.  "I  thought  it  was  the 
right  way;  and  we  have  been  happy  here.  But  now  at 
the  end  too  much  trouble  comes  to  my  people.  I  am  not 
wise  as  the  great  men  in  my  Church  are  wise.  I  will  not 
presume  to  advise  them.  I  have  done  something  which 
is  not  right,  so  my  people  have  turned  against  me." 

" It's  no  such  thing,"  declaimed  the  patriarch.  "Other 
men  have  made  the  trouble.  The  people  are  not  awake. 
They  have  been  fooled.  They  don't  know  what's  good 
for  'em.  They  have  bitten  the  hand  of  their  best  friend." 

"But,  Father  Leclair,  tell  me!  Have  you  given  up 
hope?  Are  you  going  to  let  them  put  you  away  in  this 
fashion?  Aren't  you  going  to  protest?"  demanded 
Aldrich. 

"Here's  your  home!  Here's  everything  you  have 
worked  for,"  added  Clifford.  His  wrath  made  him  care- 

224 


THE    BITTER   WORD 

less  of  his  words.  "You  have  given  everything  to  these 
people.  You  haven't  got  even  a  decent  suit  of  clothes 
to  wear  away.  That's  all  right  so  long  as  you  stay  here 
where  your  home  is;  but  it's  all  wrong  to  throw  you  out. 
You  aren't  going,  Father  Leclair!  You  can't  go!" 

The  priest  smiled  again,  wistfully  but  bravely. 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  say,  my  good  friend.  I  am  an  old 
man,  and  going  away  from  here  is  hard.  But  I  must  go. 
I  could  disobey  my  superiors  when  it  was  a  matter  between 
the  good  God,  my  conscience,  and  myself.  That  matter 
could  be  appealed  from  human  judgment  in  prayer  to  God 
Himself.  I  did  that,  Friend  Clifford.  I  knelt  the  long 
night  through  before  I  preached  my  sermon.  I  was  called 
upon  for  sacrifice!  Perhaps  my  life  had  been  laid  in  too 
easy  places.  Perhaps  I  owe  penance.  It  is  better  to 
sacrifice  ease  and  position  than  to  sacrifice  conviction 
of  the  right  when  the  future  of  my  own  people  was  con 
cerned.  I  stood  for  the  school." 

His  face  grew  radiant. 

"I  honestly  believe  that  the  humble  immolation  of 
myself  upon  this  altar  will  work  in  the  hearts  of  my  people 
— will  bring  good  to  them  in  the  end  out  of  all  this  evil 
which  is  upon  us  now.  The  school  will  do  its  work  all 
in  good  time.  I  will  go  away,  as  I  am  commanded,  and 
I  will  go  without  hatred  in  my  heart  and  without  gloom 
on  my  face." 

He  stretched  his  palms  to  them,  appeal  in  his  gesture 
and  his  eyes. 

"  I  ask  you  to  help  me  in  these  dark  days.  Do  not  try 
to  arouse  hate  and  obstinacy  in  me.  Say  to  me,  '  It  must 
all  be  for  the  best,  Pere  Leclair.  Good  will  come  out  of 
the  sacrifice.  Though  you  are  old  and  are  taken  away 
from  those  whom  you  love,  yet  it  must  be  that  God  has 
something  else  for  a  grand  task,  and  intends  to  prolong 

225 


THE    RED    LANE 

your  life  and  make  you  useful.'  Say  such  things  to  me, 
Messieurs.  Give  me  heart  and  courage,  for  I  need 
such  words." 

He  gave  to  each  a  hand,  and  they  clasped  the  thin 
fingers  and  stammered,  abashed  by  his  smile  of  resigna 
tion. 

"Aldrich,  I  want  to  see  you  a  minute  or  so,"  blurted 
the  patriarch,  after  a  moment  of  troubled  silence.  "We'll 
get  out  from  under  the  feet  of  Father  Leclair." 

He  took  the  officer  by  the  arm  and  dragged  him  out 
of  the  house  so  hurriedly  that  Aldrich  had  time  only  for 
a  mournful  nod  when  he  passed  Evangeline  on  the  porch. 

They  walked  along  the  edge  of  Father  Leclair's  little 
garden  toward  the  orchard.  The  old  hound  sat  in  the 
shade  thrown  by  the  great  barn,  looking  wistfully  at  the 
house,  as  though  he  had  been  told  by  his  canine  instinct 
that  something  was  wrong.  The  trim  luxuriance  of  the 
neatly  tended  garden  conveyed  unutterable  pathos  to 
Aldrich;  he  knew  that  every  seed  there  had  been  sown 
by  the  hand  of  the  good  priest,  that  every  plant  had  been 
the  object  of  his  solicitous  toil. 

"Look  a-here,  Aldrich,  it  mustn't  happen — it  can't  hap 
pen!  I'm  the  last  man  to  meddle  in  church  matters — 
but  this  isn't  a  church  matter  when  you  get  down  to 
bottom  facts.  It's  a  damnable,  dirty  plot,  and  the  Church 
is  being  used  in  the  thing  as  a  weapon  and  doesn't  realize 
it.  By  the  gods,  they  have  got  to  reckon  with  me  in  this 
thing — I'm  in  it!" 

"I  repeat,"  agreed  the  officer,  sadly,  "that  the  bishop 
doesn't  understand  the  situation  up  here  in  this  parish. 
You  and  I  do  understand  how  unjust  it  all  is.  It  isn't 
religion;  it's  politics!  You  know  more  about  politics 
than  I  do,  Representative  Clifford.  What  can  be  done?" 

"Fight!"  declared  the  doughty  old  man.  His  politi- 

226 


cian's  soul  now  descried  a  tangible  object  of  attack,  a 
definite  course  to  pursue.  "  You  are  right,  my  boy.  This 
is  not  religion.  A  saint  has  been  martyred  because  his 
superiors  have  been  lied  to.  The  bishop  has  never  under 
stood  these  people  up  here — he  doesn't  know  what  kind 
of  a  school  ours  proposed  to  be.  All  there  is  to  it,  he  must 
be  made  to  understand.  He  must  be  shown  what  kind 
of  folks  these  are  up  here.  They  need  a  father  instead 
of  a  master!  They're  all  children!  Pere  Leclair  is  as 
much  of  a  child  as  the  rest  of  'em.  It's  no  use  to  ask  him 
to  help  us  in  this  matter.  He  would  not  let  us  help  him 
if  he  knew  we  were  trying  to  do  so.  He's  a  lion  when  it's 
a  matter  of  conscience,  and  a  lamb  all  the  rest  of  the 
time.  Aldrich,  listen!  It's  up  to  us  two.  Are  you  with 
me?" 

"With  all  the  will  and  strength  there  is  in  me,"  de 
clared  the  young  man,  fervently.  "But  you  will  have  to 
tell  me  what  to  do  in  this  matter,  Representative  Clifford. 
I  am  all  at  sea." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  this  is  politics?  I  know  what  to  do 
in  a  matter  of  politics.  What  do  you  suppose  is  going  to 
happen  in  this  parish  when  the  word  goes  out  that  Father 
Leclair  has  been  sent  away?  Not  a  whisper  of  it  has  got 
out  as  yet.  He  wouldn't  even  tell  me  until  I  happened 
in  and  found  him  packing  that  little  box  and  made  him 
explain.  I  say,  what  do  you  suppose  will  happen  in  this 
parish  when  the  folks  know?" 

The  patriarch  did  not  require  reply  to  that  question. 

"Why,  there'll  be  a  howl  that  will  shake  windows  from 
here  to  the  St.  Croix,  Aldrich.  They  have  accepted  P£re 
Leclair  as  an  institution.  They  have  never  thought  far 
enough  ahead  to  figure  even  that  he  will  have  to  die 
some  time.  As  for  his  being  removed  from  this  parish— 
they  would  as  soon  have  expected  to  see  some  one  come 

227 


THE    RED    LANE 

along  here  and  rip  up  one  of  those  hills  yonder!  They 
will  forget  their  grouch  against  the  Yankees,  they  will 
despise  Louis  Blais,  they  will  hate  the  men  who  have 
been  stirring  up  trouble  along  this  border,  they  will  bel 
low  like  young  ones  who  have  been  whipped." 

"And  Father  Leclair  will  go  away  with  glory  in  his 
soul,  feeling  that  they  have  been  saved  by  his  sacrifice," 
suggested  Aldrich,  thoughtfully. 

"It  may  be  all  right  to  consider  it  that  way  from  a 
spiritual  standpoint,"  growled  the  veteran  of  the  legis 
lature,  "but  from  a  political  standpoint,  not  on  your  life, 
young  man!  When  you  go  to  turning  your  other  cheek 
in  politics  you  want  to  be  sure  to  have  spikes  on  that 
other  cheek!  I  say  'Fight!'  I  say  that  Father  Leclair  is 
coming  back  to  this  parish  after  a  lesson  has  been  taught 
to  these  critters  here  who  have  heard  the  cheap  yap  of  a 
demagogue  and  have  forgotten  the  lifetime  devotion  of  a 
saint.  You  and  I  will  here  and  now  shake  hands  on  the 
pledge  that  we  will  bring  this  good  priest  back  to  this 
parish.  Put  your  grit  into  this  shake,  my  boy.  Remem 
ber  that  we  mean  business." 

The  courage  of  the  old  man  was  reflected  in  the  eyes  of 
the  younger;  Aldrich  understood  that  the  politician  had 
a  plan. 

"I'm  going  to  give  out  the  word  of  what  has  happened 
to  this  parish  of  Attegat !  I'm  going  to  make  the  parish 
ring  with  the  news.  I'm  going  to  start  out  petitions 
to  be  signed  on  every  road,  along  every  lane,  in  every 
clearing.  It  must  be  done  in  a  hurry,  and  here  is  where 
you  fit,  young  man.  Get  busy !  Arrange  for  the  couriers. 
Be  captain  of  the  riders.  Start  'em  in  all  directions. 
Keep  'em  going  all  night  long.  We  can't  afford  to  waste 
even  minutes,  for  this  thing  must  be  put  up  to  the  bishop 
while  it's  fresh.  And  I  tell  you,  Aldrich,  that  when  I 

228 


THE    BITTER    WORD 

have  those  names  in  hand  and  work  the  scheme  I  have  in 
my  mind  it  will  mean  that  Father  Leclair  will  come  back 
to  the  home  where  he  belongs — or  else  there's  no  science 
in  politics!  No,  nor  mercy  in  Heaven  or  justice  in  the 
works  of  God!" 
16 


XVIII 


THE    MEN    WHO    RODE   THROUGH   THE    NIGHT 


N  the  village  square  of  Attegat  men  clus 
tered  in  groups,  thrusting  excited  faces 
close,  wagged  their  heads,  and  the  rumble 
of  their  mournful  voices  went  on  and  on 
interminably. 

At  first  the  voices  had  been  shrill, 
raised  in  a  chorus  of  disbelief.  P£re  Leclair  to  be  sent 
away  into  banishment — away  to  the  mission  of  the  lumber 
camps,  away  from  the  people  who  needed  him — ah,  no! 
That  could  not  be!  But  conviction  of  the  truth  came  at 
last  after  much  talk;  Notary  Pierre  Gendreau  had  so  de 
clared  when  they  had  asked  him,  besieging  him  in  his  little 
office.  Representative  Clifford  told  them  so,  glaring  re 
buke  at  them,  telling  them  that  enemies  had  been  at  work 
and  that  their  own  actions  of  the  past  few  weeks  had  given 
those  enemies  their  ammunition.  Norman  Aldrich  veri 
fied  the  report.  He  had  seen  the  new  priest  on  his  way 
to  Attegat,  and  his  name  was  Horrigan,  an  Irish  master 
set  over  the  flock  of  Acadians  in  the  north.  Dieu  nous 
garde!  How  the  tongues  clattered!  Ah,  they  had  not 
understood  that  their  priest  could  be  taken  away  from 
them,  they  told  each  other.  The  Yankees  had  begun  to 
persecute.  They  had  tried  to  come  together  as  Acadians 
and  show  the  Yankees  that  there  was  danger  in  driving 
poor  men  too  far!  That  was  all.  Men  had  told  them 

230 


that  they  must  show  the  Yankees  another  side  of  the 
Acadian  character.     Louis  Blais  had  advised  them! 

While  they  talked  they  turned  their  eyes  up  at  the 
window  of  Louis  Blais  above  the  new  gilt  sign.  He  did 
not  show  himself.  Why  had  he  not  told  them  that  poli 
tics  might  lead  them  into  this  sad  trouble?  What  had 
all  the  politics  in  the  world  to  do  with  the  faith  and  the 
loyalty  between  Father  Leclair  and  his  poor  people:1 
What  did  it  all  mean?  Surely,  the  great  bishop,  far  to 
the  south,  did  not  realize  what  this  astounding  thing  meant 
to  the  folks  of  Attegat !  Thus  ran  the  burden  of  the  bitter 
lament,  the  groping  for  truth  in  this  maze  of  disbelief, 
for  it  did  not  seem  as  though  it  could  be  true. 

Representative  Clifford  and  Norman  Aldrich  withdrew 
themselves  from  the  lugubrious  throng  after  a  time  and 
went  with  Notary  Gendreau  to  his  office. 

"Like  children  who  have  played  with  a  loaded  gun — 
that's  what  they  are!"  sputtered  the  patriarch.  "The 
deed  has  been  done — the  gun  has  been  fired.  Now  let's 
see  what  the  surgeon  can  do." 

He  sat  down  at  the  notary's  battered  table  and  drew  a 
sheet  of  paper  toward  him.  He  pushed  back  his  broad 
straw  hat  and  began  to  write,  wrinkling  his  brow,  taking 
thought  between  sentences,  scratching  the  pen  through 
words,  building  his  writing  laboriously,  line  upon  line. 
The  others  sat  and  watched  him  in  silence,  deferring  to 
him,  trusting  him  in  a  matter  where  politics  was  to  the 
fore,  for  they  understood  well  that  the  visitation  upon 
the  head  of  poor  Pere  Leclair  was  a  thunderbolt  forged 
on  the  anvil  of  politics. 

And  the  patriarch  knew  the  hidden  ways  and  the 
methods  of  politics! 

He  finished  at  last  and  sat  back  and  read  his  screed 
through  to  himself,  moving  his  lips  vigorously. 

231 


THE    RED   LANE 

"Now,  gentlemen,  hear  this!  We've  got  a  hard  rock 
to  split.  This,  here,  is  only  a  wooden  wedge.  The  water 
will  be  poured  on  it  later. 

"'To  OUR  MIGHTY  AND  REVERED  BISHOP, — Listen  to 
this  humble  petition  from  the  poor  folks  of  Attegat.  For 
thirty  years  the  good  Father  Leclair  has  been  our  priest. 
He  has  welcomed  our  children  as  they  have  come  into 
the  world,  joined  the  young  people  in  blessed  marriage, 
and  laid  our  dead  in  the  grave.  He  has  encouraged  the 
prosperous  and  cared  for  the  poor.  He  understands  us 
and  there  is  no  one  in  the  world  who  can  understand  us 
as  well.  To  you,  Great  Bishop,  we  lift  our  hands.  If 
we  have  done  wrong  in  Attegat  put  the  punishment  on 
us.  We  are  not  wise.  We  are  not  experienced  in  the  ways 
of  politics.  We  only  know  that  we  love  our  good  priest. 
On  our  knees,  in  our  little  homes  beside  the  great  river, 
along  the  lanes,  from  the  farms  and  the  woods  of  the 
north,  we  implore  you  to  send  him  back  to  us.  We  do 
not  understand  the  great  disputes.  We  only  know  that 
all  Attegat  sends  this  and  weeps  and  listens  for  the  word 
you  are  to  return  to  us.  Give  us  back  our  good  Father 
Leclair,  we  beseech.'" 

He  questioned  them  with  his  gaze,  turning  from  one  to 
the  other. 

"You  understand  our  people,  Representative  Clifford," 
stated  the  notary.  "You  have  put  in  simple  words  what 
they  would  like  to  say  for  themselves.  That  is  how  all 
Attegat  feels,  sir.  Hear  those  voices  out  there  in  the 
street!" 

"It  is  the  way  /  feel — only  I  haven't  language  half 
earnest  enough,"  declared  the  old  man.  "I  wish  I  knew 
the  right  words  to  use  for  the  description  of  a  martyr  and 

232 


THE    MEN   WHO    RODE 

a  hero.  There's  only  one  merit  in  what  I  have  written — 
it  comes  right  from  the  depths  of  my  heart." 

He  pushed  the  paper  across  the  table  to  the  notary. 

"  Make  a  dozen  copies  in  your  best  round  hand,  Brother 
Pierre.  Paste  on  plenty  of  paper  for  the  names.  Aldrich, 
pick  your  men.  Get  horses  that  can  gallop.  We'll  cover 
this  parish  from  one  end  to  the  other  before  morning. 
Yell  in  front  of  the  houses!  Pound  on  the  doors!  Haul 
'em  out  of  bed!  Let  the  children  sign,  too.  We're  wak 
ing  the  people  up  late — but  they'll  be  wide  awake  before 
this  thing  is  over." 

He  stood  up  and  brandished  his  arms  in  his  excitement. 
Tears  were  in  his  eyes,  and  he  could  not  wink  them 
back. 

"My  God,  why  is  it  that  only  a  few  of  us  really  under 
stand  the  heart  of  this  thing — what  lies  under  all  the  dis 
pute  and  the  politics!  The  people  have  been  foolish, 
blind,  misled.  Wreck  and  ruin  are  headed  this  way! 
If  the  spiritual  influence  of  that  little  father  is  taken  out 
of  this  parish  at  just  this  time,  when  the  folks  need  it 
most,  that  stone  house  down  there  will  stand  for  the 
gravestone  of  all  the  hopes  we  have  ever  nursed!" 

His  emotion  communicated  itself  to  Aldrich. 

"You  shall  have  the  names,  sir.  I  will  have  my  men 
at  the  door  here  before  the  copies  are  ready,  notary." 

A  shout  interrupted  him.  It  was  a  wordless  chorus 
of  woe.  It  was  almost  ululation. 

Aldrich  was  at  the  door  of  the  office. 

He  saw  Father  Leclair  riding  slowly  through  the  square, 
a  passenger  on  a  buckboard  of  which  a  grizzled  habitant 
was  the  charioteer. 

Men  were  crowding  about  him,  whipping  off  their  hats; 
women  came  running  from  yards  here  and  there. 

"But  you  are  not  going  away,  P£re  Leclair?"  they 
233 


THE    RED    LANE 

cried,  over  and  over.  They  could  not  seem  to  find  other 
words  with  which  to  express  their  incredulous  grief. 

The  thin  face  of  the  priest  under  the  broad  hat  was 
paler  than  usual.  But  he  smiled  bravely. 

"This  poor  old  body  must  pass  on,  my  children,"  he 
told  them,  when  they  had  become  silent  and  they  under 
stood  that  he  wished  to  speak.  The  grizzled  habitant 
had  stopped  his  horses,  and  now  gazed  straight  ahead  in 
dumb  woe.  "I  leave  behind  my  love,  and  if  I  have  done 
you  service  in  any  way  I  leave  behind  the  memory  of  it 
— so  that  you  may  return  that  kindness  to  others  if  I 
am  not  here  to  receive  it  from  you.  If  you  feel  you  owe 
me  anything  I  ask  you  to  pay  it  to  the  first  you  meet 
who  may  be  in  need." 

Aldrich  pressed  through  the  throng.  The  notary,  his 
wet  pen  in  his  hand,  and  the  patriarch,  doffing  his  straw 
hat,  were  at  the  officer's  heels. 

"I  did  not  understand  that  you  were  to  leave  here  so 
soon,"  protested  the  young  man.  "We  are  not  prepared 
to  see  you  go,  Pere  Leclair." 

"The  command  was  explicit,"  returned  the  priest, 
gently.  "I  was  ordered  to  depart  forthwith  to  my  new 
place."  He  leaned  close  to  Aldrich.  "If  I  seem  to  hurry 
away,  remember  that  an  old  man  cannot  endure  too  much 
anguish.  It  is  a  bitter  wound  that  has  been  dealt  me,  my 
son,  and  while  I  remain  here  it  seems  as  though  the  knife 
is  rankling  in  it.  I  must  hurry  away."  These  were  the 
only  words  of  complaint  he  uttered.  He  raised  his  head 
after  a  moment,  and  his  face  was  serene  once  more. 

"I  have  a  long  way  to  go.  I  must  hasten  on,  my  chil 
dren!"  He  gave  his  hand  to  his  three  loyal  friends,  one 
after  the  other,  and  spoke  to  the  man  who  sat  beside  him 
on  the  buckboard. 

"Good-by,  Father  Leclair!"  rumbled  the  men's  voices, 

234 


THE    MEN   WHO    RODE 

and  across  the  diapason  of  the  chorus  quavered  the  wom 
en's  treble;  and  sobs  threaded  the  sound. 

So  he  passed  out  of  the  throng  who  stood  with  bared 
heads  and  who  remained  thus  until  the  buckboard  topped 
the  hill.  They  peered  after  it  and  caught  the  last  glimpse 
of  the  little  figure  wrapped  in  its  frayed  cassock.  The 
old  hound  trotted  behind  in  the  dust. 

Notary  Gendreau's  voice  broke  the  awed  hush.  He 
shook  his  pen  at  the  people. 

"Come  to  the  door  of  my  office  and  wait,  all  you  folks," 
he  commanded.  "There  is  a  paper  for  you  to  sign.  It 
is  a  petition  to  the  great  bishop  of  the  diocese.  It  asks 
him  to  send  good  Pere  Leclair  back  to  us." 

They  cheered  excitedly,  trooping  at  his  heels. 

"No,  I  do  not  guarantee  that  it  will  bring  him  back," 
stated  the  notary,  with  legal  caution.  "But  let  each 
tongue  say  a  prayer  as  the  hand  writes  the  name,  and 
then  we  will  send  off  the  paper  and  hope  that  God  will 
speak  for  us  to  those  in  the  high  places." 

They  thronged  at  the  door  and  crowded  the  narrow 
office  and  muttered  soulfully  as  they  wrote  their  names 
with  painful  efforts  of  those  who  use  the  pen  but  seldom. 
Many  made  their  marks,  and  the  notary  wrote  their 
names  off  against  the  crosses. 

"Ah,  it  was  for  the  big  school  on  the  hill  that  the  priest 
worked  and  prayed,"  he  told  them,  rebukingly;  "he  did 
not  want  the  children  of  these  fathers  and  mothers  to 
make  their  crosses  when  the  time  came  for  them  to  sign 
their  names." 

Representative  Clifford  walked  with  Aldrich  as  far  as 
the  tavern  door. 

"I'll  go  home  now,"  the  patriarch  informed  the  officer. 
"I  want  to  do  some  thinking  on  this  proposition.  I  wish 
that  I  could  do  more,  my  boy."  His  lips  tightened 

235 


THE    RED    LANE 

grimly.  "But  I  shall  hurt  the  good  cause  by  showing 
myself  too  plainly  in  this  matter  between  Pere  Leclair 
and  his  people.  Blais  would  be  sending  word  of  that 
to  the  bishop,  also." 

"It  is  wicked  as  it  stands,  but  it  may  be  all  for  the 
best,"  declared  the  young  man,  enthusiastically.  "Blais 
has  done  this.  When  the  people  know  that  he  has  done 
it  he  will  be  knifed  at  the  caucus.  You  will  go  back  to 
the  legislature,  sir.  We  shall  be  able  to  work  together 
and  make  the  State  understand  what  ought  to  be  done 
for  these  folks  up  here.  I'm  sure  of  it!" 

"The  courage  of  youth  is  a  grand  asset  in  a  fight,  my 
boy.  Keep  yours  alive.  You'll  need  a  lot  of  it.  But 
I've  got  to  give  you  a  word  of  old  man's  caution;  the 
fight  is  just  beginning.  It  hasn't  been  won.  To-night 
you  will  find  men  in  this  district  who  will  wail  and  smack 
their  fists  over  their  heads  while  they  damn  Louis  Blais, 
and  swear  they  will  do  anything  to  get  back  their  good 
priest.  Then  they'll  begin  to  talk  about  the  Yankees 
again.  I  know  the  nature  of  these  Acadians!  One  way 
to-day,  the  other  way  to-morrow,  and  hot  and  howling 
either  way.  We  shall  have  with  us  a  good  proportion  of 
the  men  who  are  safe  on  their  lands.  But  we  shall  have 
against  us  the  men  who  have  been  kicked  out.  It's  a 
devil  of  a  situation,  I  tell  you!  I've  been  among  'em — 
realize  it — it  all  means  trouble." 

Aldrich  knew,  too.  Uneasiness  was  in  the  look  he  gave 
the  representative. 

"You  take  it  in  politics,  my  boy,  and  if  a  man  has  a 
cow  go  dry,  or  rust  strikes  his  potatoes,  or  the  measles 
has  a  run  in  his  family,  he  turns  around  and  lays  it  all 
to  the  party  in  power.  He  gets  excited  and  wants  to 
throw  the  other  fellow  out  and  put  the  new  fellow  in.  In 
this  case  up  here  I  happen  to  be  the  old  fellow.  I  got 

236 


THE    MEN   WHO    RODE 

discouraged  the  other  day.  I  reckoned  I  would  step  aside. 
I  saw  that  the  men  up  here  didn't  want  any  more  of  me. 
For  a  little  while  I  allowed  my  man's  feelings  to  get  the 
better  of  me  as  a  politician.  I've  changed  my  mind, 
Aldrich.  As  a  man  I  ought  to  be  too  modest  to  stand  up 
here  before  you  and  say  that  I  can  do  more  for  these 
people  at  the  State  Capitol  than  any  other  person  I  know 
of.  As  a  politician  I  do  say  it.  I  know  this  Attegat  end 
of  the  proposition;  I  also  know  the  State  House  end. 
Louis  Blais  would  go  down  there  and  wreck  the  whole 
thing.  He  will  sell  out  his  district;  he  will  sell  the  blood 
of  children  if  the  landowners  will  pay  him ;  and  they  will 
be  on  hand  with  the  money  next  winter  so  as  to  nail  down 
what  they  have  already  done  and  what  they  propose  to 
do.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  has  some  of  their  money 
already.  They  want  war  here.  They  want  these  people 
to  stir  trouble  so  that  they'll  have  a  good  excuse  for  beat 
ing  them  down  into  the  dust  for  keeps.  I  see  a  possible 
way  out  of  the  trouble,  my  boy.  You  have  already  sug 
gested  that  way.  I  intend  to  go  back  to  the  next  legisla 
ture  and  work.  There's  one  more  good  fight  left  in  me. 
But  even  if  I  win  at  that  legislative  convention  it  means 
wicked  doings  up  here.  The  thing  may  be  so  bad,  may 
sound  so  bad  outside  of  here,  that  the  story  of  it  may 
wreck  all  our  hopes  even  if  I  do  win,"  he  stated,  solemnly. 

He  put  his  gaunt  hand  on  Aldrich's  shoulder. 

"These  folks  here  are  not  like  other  people,  my  boy. 
They  have  got  to  be  handled  through  their  feelings.  We 
need  Father  Leclair.  We  need  him  lord-awfully,  Al 
drich.  The  people  understand  better  now  what  he  has 
meant  to  them.  He  can  come  back  and  sway  them  tow 
ard  the  right.  We  must  bring  him  back.  Get  your 
horses — get  your  men.  Ride  hard  and  keep  at  it.  Bring 
the  petitions  to  me  after  the  names  are  on.  I  want  to 

237 


THE    RED    LANE 

see  these  poor  people  saved  from  their  folly  and  from  those 
who  propose  to  ruin  them.  By  the  gods,  we  will  save 
them!  But  if  that  little  priest  isn't  back  here  to  smooth 
the  thing,  to  steer  their  emotions,  I  tell  you  solemnly  that 
the  ransom  is  likely  to  be  signed  and  sealed  with  a  bloody 
fist.  So,  ride  hard,  my  boy." 

He  walked  across  the  field,  his  hands  behind  him. 

Aldrich  found  plenty  of  ready  volunteers  in  the  village 
of  Attegat.  He  chose  those  who  owned  the  best  horses 
and  marshaled  them — intensely  earnest  men — at  the 
office  of  Notary  Pierre.  The  old  scribe,  his  spectacles  on 
the  end  of  his  nose,  wrote  with  zealous  haste  in  his  best 
hand,  translating  the  words  of  Representative  Clifford 
into  French,  so  that  all  who  signed  might  first  hear  and 
know,  might  understand  what  they  had  lost  from  deso 
late  Attegat,  might  ponder  on  what  they  sought  to  regain. 

"Read  it  aloud  to  all."  counseled  Aldrich,  as  he  sent 
away  his  men.  "Tell  them  to  remember  those  words. 
Tell  them  that  rebellion  against  the  good  is  always  pun 
ished,  and  that  if  they  can  bring  back  Father  Leclair 
to  his  parish  they  must  always  remember  the  sorrow  of 
the  time  when  he  was  sent  away." 

The  bodeful  prophecy  of  the  patriarch  was  in  his  mind. 
He  hoped  the  memory  of  those  petitions  might  serve  to 
mitigate  the  rancor  of  those  unstable  temperaments  at 
convention  time. 

For  his  own  route  he  chose  the  river  road,  the  longest 
journey.  But  he  had  a  better  mount  than  the  Acadian 
farmers  who  cantered  away  astride  their  Norman  chunks. 

So  through  that  night  rode  those  couriers  in  behalf  of 
the  good  Pere  Leclair. 

By  broad  highway,  by  winding  road,  by  lane  or  forest 
trail,  they  sought  out  the  people  in  their  homes.  From 
one  end  to  the  other  of  the  great  parish  they  scurried. 

238 


THE    MEN    WHO    RODE 

It  was  a  wonderful  night  in  Attegat!  Across  fields,  by 
path,  through  dim  forest,  into  all  the  scattered  clearings, 
a  rider  went.  There  was  the  hail  at  the  door,  the  beating 
of  fists  and  whip-handle  to  waken  the  sluggards.  To 
blinking  listeners  the  words  of  the  petition  were  read. 
Some  of  the  people  on  the  main  road  had  heard  already 
that  the  good  father  had  been  sent  away.  But  upon 
others,  those  in  the  remote  clearings,  in  the  little  houses 
along  the  hidden  lanes,  the  news  burst  as  the  tidings  of 
calamity. 

Along  the  main  road  lived  the  more  prosperous  of 
Father  Leclair's  parishioners — they  who  brought  the  fruit 
of  their  fields  to  the  big  door  of  the  priest's  granary;  in 
the  remote  places  dwelt  those  whose  scanty  acres  and 
rocky  soil  fed  them  meagerly — they  were  the  ones  who 
had  been  saved  from  hunger  by  the  doles  from  the  little 
door  of  the  barn.  The  couriers  read.  The  men  groaned; 
the  women  gasped  sobs;  the  children  wept.  What  did 
it  mean?  What  would  happen  to  Attegat  now?  Yes, 
they  had  known  that  trouble  had  threatened.  Men  had 
talked  to  them  and  said  that  Father  Leclair  was  in  league 
with  the  Yankees.  They  did  not  like  the  Yankees.  Yes, 
perhaps  they  had  wondered  why  their  priest  should  not 
hate  the  Yankees,  too!  Perhaps  they  had  been  angry 
then  and  had  forgotten  all  he  had  done  for  his  poor  peo 
ple.  The  bad  men  had  whispered  in  their  ears  and  had 
fooled  them — ah,  that  was  it! 

But  they  would  sign  the  paper.  They  would  sign  many 
papers.  They  would  crawl  on  their  knees  to  the  church 
of  Attegat.  They  would  do  novenas ;  their  wives  and  their 
children  would  pray.  They  would  vow  candles.  They 
would  do  all  things  and  never  forget  again  to  be  loyal  and 
loving  and  obedient  to  their  good  priest!  Thus  ran  the 
babble  of  the  talk  in  the  little  houses  where  the  poor  folks 

239 


THE    RED    LANE 

sat  and  kept  grieving  vigil  after  the  couriers  had  gone  on 
into  the  night !  What  had  all  the  fuss  been  about  ?  Yes, 
the  Yankees  had  been  taking  away  the  lands.  Their  own 
homes  had  been  threatened.  But  sending  away  the  good 
priest  would  not  remedy  that  sad  trouble.  There  was 
mystery  about  it.  They  must  go  forth  and  ask  questions 
of  those  who  would  know.  The  day  of  the  convention 
was  at  hand,  when  they  would  go  with  their  votes  to  send 
some  one  to  the  legislative  assembly  where  laws  are  made 
for  those  who  are  oppressed!  They  hoped  that  there 
would  be  men  at  the  convention  to  tell  them  the  right 
things — yes,  there  would  be  good  advisers  there,  men  who 
would  understand.  They  would  all  go  to  the  convention 
in  Attegat  village !  Thus  the  men  in  the  little  settlements 
canvassed  the  situation,  flocking  together,  for  sleep  had 
been  driven  away.  What  had  Pere  Leclair  advised? 
They  wished  they  could  remember  more  clearly;  but  the 
bad  men  had  been  talking  to  them,  and  the  troubles  of 
those  who  had  been  driven  from  their  homes  had  dis 
tracted  all,  and  they  had  not  listened  to  their  good  priest 
as  carefully  as  they  should  have  done!  Ah,  he  must  be 
brought  back  to  advise  them.  They  would  listen  and 
obey  if  he  could  come  among  them  again! 

Truly,  Representative  Clifford,  as  well  as  he  knew  his 
people,  would  have  been  further  impressed  with  his  own 
sagacity  if  he  could  have  heard  those  men  talking  together 
in  the  night  after  the  couriers  had  passed  on. 

Attegat  did  need  Father  Leclair  in  that  crisis.  The 
emotions  of  the  people  were  seething.  The  people  would 
follow  the  leader  who  could  best  command  those  emotions, 
who  could  by  force  of  personality  or  appeal  turn  that 
fiery  eagerness  to  be  up  and  about  something  into  the 
channels  where  accomplishment  was  promised.  The 
patriarch  understood  the  situation  best  of  all,  for  he 

240 


THE    MEN   WHO    RODE 

viewed  it  with  sure  knowledge  and  the  caution  of  age. 
This  was  the  great  crisis  of  that  generation.  The  old 
was  battling  with  the  new — education  and  progress  with 
prejudice  and  racial  suspicions.  The  right  man,  the 
right  word,  could  make  of  them  good  citizens;  and  then 
their  salvation  could  be  worked  out  by  wisdom,  not  by 
war.  The  wrong  man!  There  was  the  crux!  Repre 
sentative  Clifford  sat  late  that  night  and  muttered  his  fore 
bodings  when  he  pondered  on  the  mischief  the  wrong 
man  could  compass  among  those  overwrought  people. 

Though  Norman  Aldrich  had  ridden  the  longest  road, 
he  was  back  to  Attegat  in  the  early  morning,  first  of  all 
the  couriers.  He  had  found  that  the  folk  of  the  river 
road  knew  all  of  what  had  happened.  He  was  obliged 
to  tell  no  long  stories. 

When  he  cantered  past  the  stone  house  he  saw  Father 
Horrigan  pacing  the  yard  with  militant  stride,  and  he 
stopped  his  horse  and  walked  him  back  when  the  priest 
signaled,  for  the  gesture  had  been  sharp  and  imperative. 

"Mr.  Officer,  you  cannot  hide  meddling  from  me  by 
riding  about  that  sort  of  business  in  the  night." 

"There  was  no  secret  about  my  errand,  Father  Hor 
rigan.  I  have  been  about  in  behalf  of  a  good  friend, 
and  the  matter  required  haste." 

"It  requires  nothing  of  the  sort — none  of  your  help, 
sir.  I  have  stopped  you  to  say  this;  by  meddling  in 
these  affairs  you  are  inviting  some  very  serious  inter 
ference  in  your  own  affairs."  The  lines  in  his  face  were 
very  straight.  His  upper  lip  was  set  against  the  lower  like 
a  level  against  a  board.  "Take  that  word  from  me  to 
others  who  may  be  contemplating  the  folly  of  interfering 
in  a  matter  of  discipline." 

"I  will  do  so,  Father  Horrigan,"  returned  Aldrich,  with 
cold  respectfulness.  He  rode  on.  In  his  own  heart  he 

241 


knew  that  he  was  not  guilty  of  intent  to  meddle  in  Church 
matters.  But  this  was  no  affair  of  creed  or  denomination. 
He  believed  that  he  had  a  right  to  take  the  part  of  a  good 
friend  in  a  business  where  misunderstanding  and  politics 
had  encroached  upon  justice. 

He  turned  from  the  highway  and  rode  across  the  fields 
to  the  house  of  Representative  Clifford.  He  gave  his 
crumpled  paper  into  the  hands  of  the  old  man,  who  reached 
for  the  document  eagerly  across  the  rail  beside  which 
Aldrich  had  halted  his  horse  without  dismounting. 

"You  were  right  last  night  about  our  need  of  Father 
Leclair  in  this  trouble  which  is  coming,"  stated  the  officer, 
soberly.  "Under  the  grief  of  the  people,  because  their 
old  priest  has  been  sent  away,  there's  a  deeper  feeling. 
It  wasn't  voiced  to  me,  sir.  I  can't  tell  you  exactly  how 
I  knew  it  was  there.  But  you  know  I  have  been  riding 
on  the  long  road  where  the  folks  have  been  driven  by  the 
sheriffs.  It  makes  pretty  dry  tinder,  sir,  and  I'm  afraid 
of  what  may  happen  when  the  fire  gets  in  there." 

The  patriarch  slowly  creased  the  paper  into  neater 
lines  while  he  gazed  reflectively  upon  Aldrich. 

"It  will  amount  to  this,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "What 
you  say  clinched  my  conviction.  We  have  got  to  fight 
unless  we  propose  to  give  up  to  the  renegades  who  are 
trying  to  team  these  people.  I  swear,  I  won't  give  up! 
I'd  rather  have  the  fight  and  then  explain  it  to  the  folks 
outside  of  Attegat,  if  I  can,  than  allow  these  people  to  be 
led  off  into  a  bog  by  any  such  false  guide  as  Louis  Blais." 

He  clapped  the  folded  paper  across  his  palm. 

"A  strange  and  a  subtle  thing  is  the  human  mind, 
Aldrich.  These  names  on  a  petition  to  the  bishop! 
You're  rather  a. hard-headed  fellow;  you  may  be  thinking 
underneath  that  it's  all  a  bit  of  foolishness.  But  I  tell 
you,  in  men's  affairs  there's  a  psychological  instrument  ay 

242 


THE    MEN    WHO    RODE 

well  as  a  psychological  moment.  I  believe  that  the  bishop 
of  this  diocese  is  going  to  do  something  a  little  later  with 
out  clearly  realizing  iust  why  he  did  it.  Don't  think  I've 
gone  crazy!  But  when  a  fellow  gets  old  he  thinks  less 
of  what  the  two  fists  can  accomplish  and  more  about  what 
the  mind  can  perform.  I  have  a  plan  about  these  peti 
tions.  No  matter  what  it  is.  I  haven't  exactly  the  words 
for  expressing  my  own  thoughts  about  it.  But  I  tell 
you,  my  boy,  I'm  trusting  to  these  papers  as  the  psycho 
logical  instrument." 

He  paused  and  fixed  Aldrich  with  grave  gaze. 

"Right  ahead  of  us,  here  in  Attegat,  is  going  to  arrive 
that  other  thing — the  psychological  moment.  I  want  to 
come  out  of  the  thing  right.  For  use  in  that  moment  we 
need  something  else  than  clubs  and  guns.  I  believe  that 
Pere  Leclair  could  furnish  the  magic  thing  we  need  for 
the  control  of  the  tempers  of  these  people.  If  we  don't 
get  him  back  here,  then  we've  got  to  hope  that  God  is 
going  to  send  us  something  else." 

He  ceased  abruptly  and  went  into  the  house,  calling 
over  his  shoulder:  "Remember  that  the  old  men  dream 
dreams  and  behold  visions,  Aldrich.  I  don't  dare  to 
talk  to  you  any  longer.  You'll  begin  to  think  I'm  in  my 
second  childhood  and  have  gone  to  playing  with  toys." 

Aldrich  rode  to  the  tavern.  As  an  officer  of  the  border 
customs  he  was  used  to  vigils;  he  had  ridden  long  and 
hard  on  many  occasions,  and  the  record  of  his  exploits 
in  the  capture  of  smugglers  had  made  his  reputation  safe 
at  headquarters.  Now,  dizzy  with  sleeplessness  and  ach 
ing  with  exhaustion,  he  felt  that  the  exigencies  of  love  and 
altruism  were  proving  more  racking  than  those  of  his 
office.  But  his  heart  was  cheerful,  nevertheless.  He  had 
never  shirked  duty.  His  conscience  was  clear  as  to  those 
impetuous  days  he  had  taken  for  his  own  affairs. 

243 


THE    RED    LANE 

Far  across  the  fields  on  the  hilltop,  where  the  gaunt 
chimneys  marked  the  site  of  the  training-school,  he  saw 
moving  figures  against  the  sky,  scattered  groups  of  chil 
dren  clustered  under  the  trees;  and  the  white  gleam  of 
tents  here  and  there  showed  that  Master  Donham  was 
courageously  grappling  with  difficulties  and  was  housing 
his  school  once  more. 

So  his  own  labors  for  these  children  of  New  Acadia  were 
comfortingly  emphasized  for  him  by  what  he  saw  in  the 
distance  on  the  hilltop;  altruism  might  exact  much,  but 
he  did  not  regret. 

Dotted  against  the  green  fields  were  white  gowns;  he 
wondered  which  one  marked  Evangeline  Beaulieu.  He 
had  struggled  valiantly  for  his  love;  he  was  radiantly 
glad. 

But  he  was  weary,  weary!  He  reeled  in  his  saddle  as 
he  galloped  on  to  his  rest  at  the  tavern. 


XIX 


THE    DRAFTING   OF   BILLEDEAU 

EPRESENTATIVE  Ambrose  Clifford 
paced  to  and  fro,  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back,  keeping  to  the  shaded  side  of 
the  village  square  of  Attegat.  The  after 
noon  breeze  ruffled  the  leaves  of  the 
maples  over  his  head  and  shed  checker- 
ings  of  light  upon  his  white  beard  and  his  broad  straw 
hat.  Doves  at  his  feet  waddled  and  cooed  and  eyed  him 
wistfully,  recognizing  a  friend  who  had  often  fed  them. 
But  this  day  he  paced  on,  to  and  fro,  without  heeding 
the  doves.  Now  and  then  he  paused  in  his  march  and 
eyed  some  man  who  appeared  in  the  square  and  moved 
across  it  listlessly. 

At  these  times  the  patriarch  would  wrinkle  his  brow 
in  deep  reflection.  He  seemed  to  be  weighing  certain 
considerations  connected  with  the  man  whom  he  was  re 
garding.  Whatever  these  considerations  were,  he  would 
shake  his  head  and  resume  his  slow  march. 

Men  passed  and  doffed  hats  to  him  respectfully;  but 
other  men,  men  who  drove  through  the  square  in  buck- 
boards,  men  who  were  plainly  from  the  remoter  sections, 
these  scowled  at  him  when  they  touched  their  hats. 

Some  of  these  men  halted  their  buckboards  in  the 
square  and  climbed  the  stairs  to   Louis  Blais's  office. 
Occasionally  Blais  came  to  the  window  and  leaned  out 
17  245 


THE    RED    LANE 

over  the  new  gilt  sign  to  gaze  on  the  tall  old  man  who  was 
pacing  under  the  maples. 

Now  and  then  Clifford  halted  and  looked  across  to 
some  house  or  at  some  especial  man  with  fresh  intent- 
ness.  Once  or  twice  he  started  in  that  direction,  but  re 
traced  his  steps  to  the  shade  under  the  maples. 

"A  psychological  instrument  is  a  touchy  thing  to 
handle,"  he  muttered,  and  he  stroked  with  his  corded 
hand  a  parcel  that  bulked  in  his  breast  pocket. 

A  girl  entered  the  square,  coming  down  the  road  from 
the  hill.  She  hesitated  a  moment  when  she  saw  the  old 
man,  and  then  went  to  him.  She  was  in  white,  and  her 
face  under  her  broad  hat  was  glorious  with  the  hues  of 
youth,  softened  by  the  delicate  brown  of  outdoor  life. 

"My  courtesy  to  Mademoiselle  Evangeline  Beaulieu," 
he  said,  swinging  off  his  hat.  "How  goes  the  roofless 
school?" 

"  I  fear  that  a  heavy  hand  has  now  come  into  the  parish 
of  Attegat,  sir.  Many  of  the  scholars  did  not  come  to 
school  this  morning."  She  looked  down  the  long  street 
toward  the  stone  house. 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "We  must  all  bow  our 
heads  for  a  while,  Mam'selle.  These  are  strange  times. 
Prejudice  and  misunderstanding  have  roiled  the  waters 
of  knowledge.  But  we  mustn't  be  discouraged." 

"There  is  no  discouragement  up  there,  sir,"  she  re 
turned,  with  a  wistful  smile.  "There  are  many  who  are 
loyal,  parents  and  children.  We  are  all  praying  that 
those  in  the  high  places  will  understand  the  school  very 
soon." 

"I  believe  they  will,  my  dear.  There  are  liars  abroad 
here  in  this  land.  And  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  lie  about  the 
other  man's  creed  and  beliefs.  But  the  other  man  can 
win  in  the  end  if  he  is  patient  and  confounds  the  liars  by 

246 


DRAFTING   OF    BILLEDEAU 

deed  instead  of  word.  That's  what  we  will  do  in  regard 
to  the  big  school." 

She  broke  upon  the  moment  of  silence  that  ensued. 

"I  have  heard  that  many  riders  went  about  the  parish 
last  night,  sir.  I  believe  that  they  were  to  report  to 
you.  By  chance,  did  any  one  say  that  he  had  seen  my 
father?  I  am  told  he  is  not  at  his  home.  I  have  written 
twice  to  him,  and  I  have  not  received  a  reply.  I  have 
written  again."  She  exhibited  a  letter.  "I  am  on  my 
way  to  post  it.  You  understand  the  dreadful  trouble 
which  has  come  between  us." 

"  There  was  no  word  of  him.  But  I  will  make  inquiries, 
Mam'selle.  Perhaps  he  has  been  seen." 

She  hesitated,  staring  up  at  him,  plainly  engaged  with 
some  problem  in  her  thoughts.  Then  she  turned  from 
him  and  drew  a  crumpled  letter  from  its  hiding-place  in 
her  breast. 

"I  did  not  intend  to  show  this  to  any  one,  sir.  I 
should  have  destroyed  it  at  once,  I  suppose.  It  is  slander 
that  is  too  vile  to  be  noticed.  But  if  there  is  a  threat 
here,  if  some  enemy  intends  to  do  further  mischief,  per 
haps  I  ought  to  ask  advice  from  some  one  wiser  than  I. 
Will  you  read  it,  sir?" 

It  was  written  in  a  hand  crudely  disguised. 

"Unless  Evangeline  Beaulieu  wants  to  be  suspected  of 
helping  to  cover  up  the  murder  of  her  own  father  she 
had  better  ask  the  Yankee  customs  sneak  where  he  hid 
the  body  of  Vetal  Beaulieu  after  the  shooting  in  the 
woods." 

"I  would  not  allow  such  a  scurrilous  thing  to  disturb 
me,"  he  advised  her  promptly.  "Your  father  has  been 
about  his  affairs  within  a  few  days.  And  if  you  will 

247 


THE    RED    LANE 

pardon  the  reference,  Mam'selle,  he  seemed  to  be  healthy 
and  active — if  reports  are  true.  No  harm  has  come  to 
him.  He  may  be  staying  out  of  sight  just  now  for  some 
good  reasons  of  his  own." 

She  received  the  letter  from  his  hand  and  tore  it  up. 

"It  is  wicked  slander — cruel  and  wicked  both,"  she 
insisted.  "My  poor  father  has  let  himself  be  led  into 
these  ways  by  a  scoundrel." 

"Have  you  said  anything  to  Aldrich  about  that  letter?" 

"I  cannot.  It  would  be  an  insult  to  an  honest  young 
man  to  mention  such  a  thing  to  him." 

"I  will  think  it  over,"  the  old  man  assured  her.  "I 
will  have  news  from  your  father  soon,  I  am  sure.  I 
would  not  worry,  were  I  you.  This  is  more  of  the  same 
persecution.  Vetal  Beaulieu  is  not  a  man  who  can  stay 
hidden  long,  even  if  he  wants  to  help  the  plans  of  a  scamp 
by  hiding." 

"There  comes  Fiddler  Billedeau  riding  into  the  vil 
lage,"  she  cried.  "He  sees  everybody — he  knows  all 
things  in  this  land  up  here.  I  will  ask  him  for  news  of 
my  father." 

She  hurried  away  across  the  square.  For  a  moment 
Clifford  followed  her  with  his  eyes.  Then  he  looked  at 
Billedeau;  and,  as  he  looked,  his  face  cleared.  He  put 
on  his  hat  and  swung  across  the  square  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  has  suddenly  settled  a  problem. 

"When  one  is  looking  for  a  psychological  instrument," 
he  said,  aloud,  "he  must  not  be  too  hasty  in  his  choice. 
I  know  now  why  I  have  been  waiting  here  so  long." 

Billedeau  was  shaking  his  head  in  reply  to  the  girl's 
eager  questions  when  Clifford  came  to  him. 

"I  have  not  seen  him,  Mam'selle.  I  only  know  that 
he  took  the  horses  and  the  cows  away  from  the  poor  folks 
who  owed  money  to  him,  and  that  he  went  away  toward 

248 


DRAFTING   OF    BILLEDEAU 

Monarda,  and  that  the  young  man  of  the  customs  was 
very  close  behind  him  and  was  asking  all  for  news  of 
Vetal  Beaulieu. ' '  He  smiled  shrewdly.  ' '  I  hope  he  found 
him  and  that  Vetal  Beaulieu  took  back  the  unkind  words 
he  said  that  night  in  Bois-de-Rancourt  clearing." 

She  flushed  at  the  little  joke.  She  did  not  smile. 
That  hateful,  anonymous  note — absurd,  diabolical  as  it 
was — had  left  its  sooty  suggestion  of  evil  in  her  mind. 
She  did  not  for  an  instant  admit  that  she  believed  that 
harm  had  come  to  her  father  from  any  source;  but  the 
fiddler  was  chattering  the  border  gossip,  what  every  one 
knew,  that  Norman  Aldrich  had  gone  forth  in  quest  of 
Vetal  Beaulieu,  searching  for  a  man  who  had  sworn 
deadly  enmity  toward  this  Yankee  lover  of  Evangeline 
Beaulieu.  In  stress  of  feelings  the  mind  gallops.  The 
warning  words  of  Supple  Jack  Hebert  flashed  into  her 
thoughts.  He  had  said  that  when  a  man  threatens  and 
the  news  goes  abroad  of  his  threats,  then  if  anything  hap 
pens  there  may  be  blood  on  his  head,  if  not  on  his  hands. 

She  held  her  peace,  wondering  why  such  thoughts 
should  come  to  her.  Norman  had  not  found  her  father; 
he  had  returned  discouraged  because  he  had  failed  to 
find  Beaulieu  to  have  that  man-to-man  talk  with  him. 
But  where  was  Vetal  Beaulieu,  and  what  evil  was  behind 
the  hand  that  penned  that  note? 

Her  mind  was  taken  from  her  own  problems  as  soon  as 
the  representative  reached  the  buckboard. 

"Billedeau,"  he  began,  briskly.  "I  have  important 
business  with  you.  Stable  your  horse  with  a  friend  where 
it  will  be  safe  for  some  days  to  come." 

He  checked  the  fiddler's  meek  question  and  smiled 
at  his  astonishment. 

"  It  is  not  a  matter  to  be  talked  over  in  the  street,  my 
good  friend.  Put  your  old  horse  in  a  comfortable  place. 

249 


THE    RED    LANE 

It  is  a  long  walk  to  my  house,  Mam'selle.  May  I  have  a 
corner  of  Madame  Ouillette's  sitting-room  for  a  chat 
with  Anaxagoras?" 

They  walked  slowly;  and  the  fiddler,  trotting  on  his 
short  legs,  overtook  them  before  they  reached  the  gate 
of  the  cottage. 

"You  shall  sit  with  us  and  hear  what  I  have  to  say  to 
our  good  friend,  Mam'selle,  for  it  is  something  very  near 
to  your  heart,"  said  the  old  representative. 

Billedeau  perched  himself  on  the  edge  of  a  hard  chair, 
crushing  his  shabby  hat  between  his  knees.  His  eyes 
were  very  round  and  his  face  was  very  grave,  for  the 
veteran  legislator — the  old  man  who  had  helped  to  make 
the  laws  and  who  had  dwelt  in  the  halls  of  the  high  places 
far  away  from  Attegat — awed  him.  In  silence,  in  won 
der,  with  respect,  he  listened. 

The  girl  displayed  as  much  wonderment.  The  demeanor 
of  the  old  man  promised  that  this  was  no  ordinary  affair 
to  which  the  fiddler  had  been  called. 

Both  of  them  watched  Clifford  while  he  drew  a  packet 
of  papers  from  his  pocket  and  laid  them  on  his  knee. 

"Billedeau,  you  know  all  the  news.  You  know  that 
the  good  Father  Leclair  has  been  sent  away  from  his 
parish  because  his  enemies  have  been  up  to  mischief. 
You  have  heard  that  men  rode  abroad  in  the  night  and 
asked  the  people  to  sign  papers.  These  are  the  papers 
they  have  signed — and  they  have  prayed  while  they  were 
signing.  These  are  precious  papers,  good  Billedeau. 
They  mean  much  when  one  understands  the  folks  who 
signed  them  and  how  they  signed  with  hope  and  tears. 
I  know  you  understand." 

The  fiddler  crushed  his  hat  more  nervously,  and  his 
round  eyes  grew  moist. 

"I  was  with  my  friends — I  was  at  one  of  the  little 
250 


DRAFTING   OF    BILLEDEAU 

houses  when  the  paper  was  brought,  sir,  and  I  signed." 
He  pointed  a  stubby  finger  at  the  packet,  and  his  voice 
was  husky  with  awe.  "It  will  go  to  the  great  bishop  far 
away,  eh?  His  hands  will  touch  it — his  eyes  will  see  it?" 
The  packet  had  taken  on  the  aspect  of  a  solemnly  sacred 
object;  its  destination  made  it  seem  a  wonderful,  a  mystic 
thing,  since  he  had  realized  for  what  use  it  was  designed. 

"It  is  to  go  to  the  hands  of  the  bishop."  Clifford 
caressed  it. 

The  old  fiddler  stared  at  the  papers,  fascinated  by  the 
thoughts  the  packet  suggested. 

"You,  yourself,  will  carry  them,  eh?" 

"Oh  no,  I  cannot  do  that,  Anaxagoras.  I  should  spoil 
all." 

"Ah,  M'ser,  there  is  no  one  else  in  Attegat  who  has  met 
the  great  men  as  you  have  met  them.  There  is  no  one 
else  besides  the  honored  Representative  Clifford  who  will 
dare  to  raise  his  eyes  to  the  great  bishop  and  tell  him 
about  the  papers  and  the  poor  people." 

"Your  bishop  would  not  even  receive  me  if  I  should 
go  to  him  on  such  an  errand.  He  would  call  it  insolence. 
He  would  not  listen.  All  would  be  ruined.  The  man 
who  must  go  to  him  is  one  of  the  people  who  are  praying 
to  have  their  good  priest  restored  to  them.  He  must 
be  humble,  he  must  be  patient,  he  must  know  all  the  peo 
ple  and  understand  what  the  people  have  lost,  and  then 
he  can  tell  the  bishop  how  Father  Leclair  is  needed  in 
Attegat.  Billedeau,  there  is  no  one  else  who  knows  the 
folks  of  Acadia  as  you  know  them.  You  must  carry  the 
papers  to  the  bishop." 

Billedeau  dropped  his  hat  to  the  floor  and  swayed  in 
his  chair. 

Terror,  astonishment,  stupefaction  set  his  features  into 
a  rigid  mask  and  paralyzed  his  tongue. 

251 


THE    RED    LANE 

"Yes,  you  must  go,  Anaxagoras.  I  have  been  down 
there  in  the  village  square  walking  under  the  trees,  look 
ing  at  the  men  as  they  came  and  went,  trying  to  decide 
who  should  carry  the  precious  papers  away.  I  could  not 
find  the  right  one.  But  the  moment  I  saw  you  it  was  all 
settled  in  my  mind.  You  came  like  an  answer  to  prayer. 
Why,  there  is  no  one  else !  I  should  have  thought  of  you 
first  of  all!" 

The  girl  stood  up,  radiant  in  her  excitement  and  joy. 

"I  believe  God  has  led  Monsieur  Billedeau  among  the 
people,  to  and  fro,  all  the  years,  and  has  preserved  him 
for  this  service,"  she  declared,  raptly.  "Of  all  others 
he  can  speak  best  for  them.  He  has  been  in  all  the  homes; 
he  loves  them,  and  they  love  him.  Oh,  I  have  seen  it 
all  with  my  own  eyes,  sir !  Out  of  his  heart  and  his  knowl 
edge  he  can  speak  to  the  great  bishop  for  the  poor  folks 
of  Attegat." 

The  old  fiddler's  lips  worked  wordlessly.  He  ground  a 
dusty  boot  upon  the  crushed  hat  which  lay  at  his  feet. 
He  writhed  like  one  who  feels  agony  in  his  veins. 

"Listen,  Anaxagoras,  and  understand  what  this  service 
may  mean.  The  people  are  inflamed.  This  trouble  has 
made  two  parties.  Men  of  the  stamp  of  Louis  Blais  will 
work  upon  those  who  hate  the  Yankees,  and  they  will  be 
ready  to  fight.  But  others  will  be  as  ready  to  fight  all 
who  have  turned  with  Louis  Blais  against  the  good  priest. 
We  must  have  Father  Leclair  back  in  Attegat.  He  is  the 
only  one  who  can  bring  the  people  together.  They  will 
not  fight  across  him  when  he  is  back  here  again.  He  can 
plead,  he  can  make  them  understand  how  bad  it  will  be 
to  fight.  He  will  make  them  wait  until  wise  heads  can 
bring  matters  straight  once  more." 

"The  bishop  will  listen  to  you.  He  will  understand 
that  you  are  one  of  the  people,"  cried  the  girl;  and  a  smile 

252 


DRAFTING   OF    BILLEDEAU 

from  the  patriarch  encouraged  her  to  proceed.  "It  will 
be  like  the  poor  folks  talking  to  him.  He  will  see  them 
through  your  eyes,  M'ser  Billedeau.  Go  to  him  as  you 
are;  talk  to  him  as  you  talk  to  us  about  the  Acadians, 
whom  you  love  so  well." 

"The  psychological  instrument!"  muttered  Clifford,  in 
his  beard.  "I'm  on  the  right  track  in  this  thing.  A 
bright  girl  sees  the  point  in  a  jiffy." 

He  arose  and  went  to  Billedeau  and  put  his  hand  on  the 
fiddler's  shoulder.  The  round  eyes  which  slowly  turned 
up  to  his  were  like  the  eyes  of  a  dog  under  the  lash. 

"Come,  my  good  man,  take  heart.  You  are  going  out 
to  save  your  people  and  bring  your  good  friend  back  to 
his  stone  house  and  his  garden — back  to  his  church  and 
those  who  need  him.  It's  a  grand  service." 

At  the  touch  on  his  shoulder  Billedeau  slid  from  the 
hard  chair  and  crumpled  down  on  his  knees. 

"Oh,  great  Representative  Clifford,"  he  mourned,  one 
hand  upraised  in  appeal,  one  hand  tugging  at  his  con 
stricted  throat,  "you  have  called  me  by  my  name — that's 
Billedeau.  You  have  looked  at  me  as  though  you  knew 
me.  I  do  not  understand.  Yes,  I  am  Billedeau.  But 
I'm  much  afraid  that  you  don't  know  I  am  Billedeau — the 
old  fiddler — only  the  old  fiddler!  So  I  only  dream  that 
you  talk  to  me  as  you  have  talked." 

"It  is  no  dream — not  this!"  declared  Clifford,  brusque 
ly.  "I  want  you  to  be  very  wide  awake  from  now  on, 
my  friend.  I'm  putting  a  big  thing  into  your  hands, 
but  you  are  just  the  one  to  do  it." 

"No!  I  cannot  do  it!  I  am  nothing  but  Fiddler 
Billedeau,  I  say.  You  do  not  understand.  I  do  not 
have  even  a  roof  over  my  head.  I  am  what  Vetal  Beau- 
lieu  says  I  am,  though  my  good  friends  have  made  me 
forget  it.  I  am  a  vagabond." 

253 


THE    RED    LANE 

"You  are  a  good  man,  you  have  done  your  share  for 
your  fellow-men  in  the  world.  Some  are  called  for  this 
purpose,  some  for  that,  Anaxagoras.  Now,  you  are 
called  on  for  this  greater  service.  You  must  carry  the 
papers  to  the  bishop." 

The  man  on  the  floor  began  to  shiver.  It  was  the 
shuddering  of  one  whom  mortal  fear  has  overtaken. 

' '  The  bishop !"  he  stuttered.  ' '  The  great  bishop !  Bille- 
deau  there!  Billedeau  daring  to  speak  to  him!  Ah,  no! 
That  cannot  be." 

"Look  a-here,  Anaxagoras,  have  the  folks  up  and  down 
the  river  ever  done  anything  for  you  in  all  the  years 
past?" 

This  was  a  point  on  which  the  old  fiddler  had  convic 
tions  that  not  even  his  present  distraction  could  jar. 

"They  have  given  me  all,"  he  wailed.  "But  it  has 
not  been  as  though  I  begged,  sir.  They  gave  me  friend 
ship  first.  Then  they  gave  me  the  things  which  friends 
give  to  friends.  That  is  the  way  all  has  been  given  me." 

"Exactly!  Now,  Anaxagoras,  I  have  lived  a  long  time 
in  the  world,  and  I  have  been  about  that  world  quite  a 
lot.  Do  you  think  I  know  a  thing  or  two?" 

"You  are  the  very  wise  man.  I  have  always  said  that, 
Representative  Clifford.  You  know  the  wise  way  about 
all  things." 

"Very  well!  Now  I  tell  you  out  of  that  wisdom, 
Anaxagoras,  that  of  all  the  others  in  the  world  you  are 
the  right  one  to  carry  those  papers  to  the  bishop.  Sit 
back  into  your  chair." 

He  urged  the  stricken  man  gently  back  upon  the  seat. 

"I  say  again,  you  are  the  one  man  who  can  do  this 
thing  as  it  ought  to  be  done.  I  can't  stop  to  explain 
why.  You'll  have  to  take  my  word  for  it." 

Representative  Clifford  had  decided  not  to  go  into 

254 


details  with  the  overwrought  fiddler  regarding  "psycho 
logical  instruments." 

"Furthermore,  you  don't  need  any  reminders  of  what 
the  folks  have  done  to  make  your  life  comfortable.  I'll 
admit  you  have  done  a  lot  for  them  in  your  way,  Anax- 
agoras.  But  now  there  arises  an  occasion  when  you  can 
do  the  one  grand  and  noble  thing.  The  bishop  is  a  man — • 
a  man  who  has  made  a  mistake,  as  we  all  know  up  here. 
You  are  a  man.  You  can  go  to  him.  He  is  a  good  man. 
He  will  treat  you  kindly.  He  will  see  at  once  that  you 
are  a  good  man.  Now,  in  the  name  of  the  poor  people 
of  Attegat,  I  call  on  you  for  this  duty."  He  straightened 
himself  and  spoke  solemnly,  understanding  the  Acadian 
nature  when  emergency  called,  and  called  in  the  right 
way.  "Anaxagoras  Billedeau,  will  you  be  a  coward  and 
fail  to  do  your  duty?" 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  room.  Clifford  did  not 
speak  again.  He  knew  his  man  and  the  temperament  of 
those  simple  folks  of  the  border.  He  did  not  discount  his 
cause  by  further  appeals. 

The  old  fiddler,  whose  life  had  been  so  full  of  devotion 
to  his  friends,  whose  scheme  of  action  had  been  to  repay 
kindness  with  all  the  fervor  that  was  in  him,  was  arguing 
that  question  of  martyrdom  with  himself. 

To  his  simple  nature  the  duty  which  was  required  of 
him  was  like  to  martyrdom. 

In  all  his  life  he  had  never  been  beyond  the  confines  of 
the  country  of  New  Acadia.  The  "outside"  was  to  him 
a  land  full  of  high  and  mighty  personages  who  rushed 
about  their  affairs  with  scant  regard  for  other  beings. 
Once  he  had  ventured  far  enough  across  the  boundary 
which  he  had  set  to  his  domains  to  view  a  railroad  train, 
and  he  had  seen  it  roar  past  and  had  wondered  how  men 
and  women  dared  to  trust  themselves  in  the  bowels  of 

255 


THE    RED    LANE 

that  dragon.  And  where  was  this  great  bishop?  He 
turned  appealing  gaze  from  the  patriarch  to  the  girl.  His 
contorted  face  showed  the  agony  of  this  battle  within  him. 

Clifford  knew  when  to  add  the  last  word. 

"I  want  to  say  this,  Anaxagoras:  the  journey  will  be 
made  easy  for  you.  I  will  write  down  every  move  you 
are  to  make.  You  can  go  and  you  can  come  back  in  per 
fect  safety.  I  understand  all  about  such  things,  as  you 
well  know." 

The  inerrant  instinct  of  femininity  put  in  just  the  right 
word  then.  Evangeline  understood  one  phase  of  the 
character  of  such  a  man  as  Billedeau  even  better  than 
Clifford  understood. 

"For  your  food  on  the  journey  you  shall  not  worry, 
M'ser,"  she  said,  consolingly.  "Perhaps  you  will  not 
know  how  to  buy  food  in  the  strange  places  where  there 
will  be  no  good  friends  to  give  you  a  share  of  their 
store.  So  with  my  own  hands  I  will  cook  for  you  the 
things  I  know  you  like — I  will  pack  a  big  bucket  so  that 
you  may  have  abundance  for  the  way  down  and  the 
journey  back.  It  shall  be  good  Acadian  food,  and  you 
shall  not  realize  that  you  are  far  from  home." 

She  went  to  him  and  patted  his  hands,  which  he  was 
wringing  as  he  fought  with  his  fears. 

"You  are  wise,  M'ser,"  he  stammered  at  last.  "  Mam'- 
selle,  you  are  good.  It  is  said  I  must  go — that  I  am  the 
right  one  to  go.  I  am  not  wise.  It  seems  strange  that 
I  am  the  right  one.  But  you  know  better  than  I  can 
understand.  You  call  on  me  and  say,  'Anaxagoras 
Billedeau,  help  the  poor  people!'"  He  spread  his  palms 
to  them,  wistful,  submissive,  resigned,  trembling,  yet 
courageous.  "So  I  will  go!" 


XX 


THE   JOURNEY   OF   BILLEDEAU 

NAXAGORAS  BILLEDEAU  waited  at 
the  wayside  railroad  station  where  the 
stage  from  the  north  had  dropped  him. 
He  sat  in  the  sun  on  a  knife-nicked 
bench,  and  between  his  guarding  feet 
was  a  huge  wooden  bucket,  painted  blue. 
He  was  bolt  upright,  alert,  rigid,  tense,  and  on  his  coun 
tenance  was  reflected  the  trepidation  which  convulsed  his 
soul.  With  one  hand  he  kept  assuring  himself  that  the 
packet  was  safe;  it  was  in  a  pocket  of  his  flannel  shirt, 
and  his  waistcoat  and  coat  were  buttoned  jealously 
over  it. 

The  other  trembling  hand  frequently  dodged  into  one 
of  his  trousers  pockets,  like  a  weasel  holing  game. 
Money  was  in  that  pocket,  and  money  was  a  strange 
guest  in  the  pocket  of  Anaxagoras  Billedeau.  He  had 
always  known  that  money  was  an  uncomfortable  pos 
session.  He  had  seen  on  many  occasions  the  trouble  that 
money  had  wrought  for  others.  Never  before  had  he 
felt  money  in  his  pockets — a  flat  little  wad  of  paper  that 
always  seemed  to  be  hiding  itself  from  his  fingers,  work 
ing  into  seams  of  his  garments,  into  folds  of  the  cloth, 
when  he  changed  his  position.  Until  he  found  it  he 
gasped,  his  eyes  rolled,  and  his  heart  jumped.  Ah,  yes, 
he  pondered,  money  was  an  uncomfortable  possession. 
Since  he  had  taken  it  from  the  hand  of  the  great  Repre- 
•  257 


THE    RED    LANE 

sentative  Clifford  and  had  tucked  it  away  as  deeply  as 
his  pocket  would  allow  he  had  not  known  one  moment 
of  peace.  The  old  fiddler  muttered  to  himself  his  con 
victions  on  the  subject  of  money. 

Without  money  he  had  lived  his  life  till  then;  he  had 
ridden  to  and  fro  and  had  been  welcome  in  all  the  little 
homes,  and  he  had  been  contented  and  happy  and  with 
out  care.  And  now  that  the  hateful  money  was  in  his 
pocket  he  was  restless,  continually  jumping  with  fresh 
alarms;  he  was  suspicious  of  all  men,  for  he  had  been 
warned  that  men  lay  in  wait  for  the  unwary  who  had 
money  in  their  pockets.  Surely  he,  Anaxagoras  Bille- 
deau,  would  be  glad  when  he  got  home  into  Acadia  once 
more  and  could  place  back  in  the  hand  of  Representative 
Clifford  the  remainder  of  that  accursed  money.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  dreaded  the  approach  of  men,  he 
felt  bitter  fear  in  his  heart ;  and  the  most  of  his  discom 
fort,  he  knew,  was  caused  by  that  little  wad  of  paper 
in  his  trousers  pocket. 

However,  that  constant  uneasiness  on  account  of  the 
money  kept  his  thoughts  away  from  the  one  gigantic 
thing  that  he  had  hardly  dared  to  squint  at  in  his  pon- 
derings;  he  kept  his  mind  turned  resolutely  away,  as  one 
keeps  his  eyes  away  from  the  sun  when  it  is  overhead  and 
blistering.  The  bishop!  He  was  to  see  the  bishop! 
Before  his  eyes  would  again  look  upon  the  domed  hills 
of  the  Acadian  country,  before  he  would  behold  the  glint 
of  the  river  once  more  and  see  the  bateaux  drifting  and 
the  oars  splashing,  he  would  have  seen  the  great  bishop! 
That  thought  had  come  to  him  once,  and  it  had  tingled 
in  every  fiber  of  his  being  like  an  electric  shock.  His 
temples  had  throbbed,  his  sight  had  gone  black,  a  delirious 
thrill  of  fear  swept  him,  and  he  came  back  to  his  senses 
as  though  recovering  from  a  swoon;  and  since  then  he 

258 


THE    JOURNEY 

had  kept  his  mind  on  other  matters.  The  money — the 
packet!  He  held  his  hands  on  them  and  was  helped  to 
keep  his  mind  off  the  bishop. 

The  sun  showed  up  his  rusty  clothes  pitilessly. 

The  old  fiddler  did  not  know  that  Evangeline's  woman's 
impulse  had  been  to  array  their  messenger  in  new  garments 
from  the  scanty  stock  of  the  village  general  store. 

The  patriarch  had  been  wiser  than  she. 

"Let  the  bishop  see  Anaxagoras  as  he  is — a  leaf  from 
the  book  of  life  up  here.  We  cannot  bring  the  bishop  to 
Attegat,  so  we  must  send  a  real  bit  of  Attegat  to  him. 
It  will  be  serious  enough  business  for  Anaxagoras  as  it  is. 
So  long  as  he  can  feel  like  himself,  my  dear,  he  may  be 
able  to  pull  through.  New  clothes  would  overwhelm 
him." 

Anaxagoras  had  not  thought  at  all  upon  the  matter  of 
clothes.  As  well  might  one  expect  a  sheep  to  take 
thought  upon  the  matter  of  raiment. 

He  shivered  when  the  distant  engine  hooted  its  alarm 
at  last ;  he  shrank  back  when  the  clanging  creature  wheezed 
past  him. 

"Follow  the  men — go  into  the  car  where  you  see  the 
men  go,"  Clifford  had  told  him.  He  had  realized  that 
the  fiddler  would  be  more  at  ease  in  the  smoking-car  among 
the  men,  where  smoke  wreaths  floated  and  where  the  scene 
would  remind  him  of  the  big  rooms  of  the  border  taverns. 

Anaxagoras  took  the  first  seat  in  the  car  and  sat  straight, 
not  daring  to  lean  back.  Anxiously  he  drew  out  the  paper 
on  which  Representative  Clifford  had  written  the  in 
structions  for  the  journey.  Yes,  he  had  done  right;  he 
had  bought  his  ticket,  and  that  ticket  was  in  his  waist 
coat  pocket.  A  man  with  gold  on  his  cap  would  come  and 
ask  for  that  ticket.  Very  well!  Anaxagoras  unfolded 
the  long  strip  of  ticket  and  held  it  before  him,  pinching  it 

259 


THE    RED    LANE 

tightly  between  thumb  and  finger.  He  stared  anxiously 
when  the  man  with  gold  on  his  cap  punched  the  ticket 
and  gave  it  back. 

That  ticket  represented  much  money;  it  was  another 
possession  that  entailed  worry  and  distrust  of  his  fellows. 
Surely,  the  world  where  money  ruled  was  a  most  uncom 
fortable  world! 

So  he  rode,  hour  after  hour,  the  trucks  clattering  and 
bumping  under  his  seat,  the  landscape  blurring  before  his 
eyes.  The  train  stopped,  the  train  started;  men  came 
and  men  went;  and  the  fiddler  sat  bolt  upright,  his  eyes 
straight  ahead. 

He  dared  to  show  his  ticket  at  last  to  a  brakeman,  and 
he  was  so  meek  and  so  wistful  that  the  man  was  not 
brusque.  He  told  Anaxagoras  that  when  the  train  arrived 
at  the  junction  he  would  direct  him  aright. 

There  was  a  wait  at  the  junction.  The  old  man  went 
to  a  corner  of  the  big  room  and  opened  his  bucket  and 
munched  his  food  thankfully.  He  was  encouraged.  The 
brakeman  had  spoken  kindly.  Friends  do  rise  up  in  behalf 
of  the  humble,  he  pondered  thankfully!  That  brakeman 
had  enlisted  the  services  of  one  of  the  station  hands,  and 
Anaxagoras  would  be  put  on  board  the  right  train  when 
it  arrived. 

So  he  found  himself  riding  on  again,  once  more  in  a 
cross-seat  near  the  door,  for  it  seemed  presumption  to 
venture  farther  into  the  bowels  of  the  car. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  city.  It  was  night,  and  the  flash 
ing  lights  of  streets  and  buildings,  as  the  train  rumbled 
slowly  along,  bewildered  and  dazzled  him. 

He  showed  the  paper  on  which  Representative  Clifford 
had  written,  and  another  man  was  kind.  He  must  wait 
many  hours  at  the  city — most  of  the  night;  his  train 
would  leave  in  the  early  morning. 

260 


THE    JOURNEY 

Once  more  he  found  a  corner  and  opened  his  bucket. 
He  ate,  but  the  food  might  as  well  have  been  sawdust, 
for  his  wonder  and  his  excitement  dulled  all  taste. 

He  sat  at  a  window  of  the  railroad  station  as  he  ate. 
Electric  cars  went  rocking  past,  and  there  were  weird 
flashes  of  blue  and  green  lights,  snappy,  sparkly  lights, 
at  the  end  of  the  long  pole  above  them.  He  had  heard 
of  such  cars;  he  had  never  thought  he  would  behold 
them.  The  lights  of  the  city  about  him  blazed  in  his 
eyes,  flared  up,  and  spread  upon  the  skies  in  banner-like 
rays.  Hustle  and  bustle  and  hurry!  It  was  all  very 
wonderful  to  Anaxagoras  Billedeau  as  he  sat  stiffly  up 
right  and  munched  his  Acadian  barley-bread. 

Sleep  came  upon  him — sleep  that  his  astonishment,  his 
apprehensiveness  regarding  his  treasures,  his  thrills  when 
he  remembered  that  he  must  see  and  speak  with  the  great 
bishop,  could  not  drive  away.  The  seats  in  the  station 
were  not  made  to  lie  down  upon.  But  he  curved  his  short 
legs  around  the  arm-irons  as  best  he  could  and  dozed 
fitfully.  In  the  dawn  he  heard  a  man  bawl  the  name  of 
the  State's  metropolis.  He  had  been  told  to  wait  for 
that  announcement,  and  he  picked  up  his  bucket  and 
climbed  the  steps  of  that  car  which  men  entered  with 
cigars  in  their  mouths. 

There  were  many  villages,  many  cities,  and  he  stared 
with  wide-open  eyes  at  all  the  strange  spectacles  he 
saw. 

No  longer  were  there  men  of  his  ilk  in  the  car — such 
men  as  he  had  seen  in  the  train  on  the  branch  line.  Here 
were  brisk  men  wearing  clothes  such  as  he  had  never 
seen  on  the  border.  They  talked  of  matters  of  which  he 
had  never  heard.  The  panorama  outside  shifted  with 
dizzying  swiftness,  and  at  every  station  new  groups  came 
past  him  along  the  car  aisle.  He  peered  eagerly  and 
18  261 


THE    RED    LANE 

listened  and  ate  from  his  blue  bucket  as  unobtrusively  as 
he  could.  And  he  made  sure  of  his  precious  packet  and 
of  the  little  wad  of  money  very  often. 

It  was  night  again  when  he  arrived  at  the  great  city  of 
the  State. 

He  made  his  way  timorously  across  tracks,  following 
the  throng.  On  his  paper  was  written  the  name  of  a 
hotel.  Representative  Clifford  had  told  him  it  was  near 
the  station,  that  it  was  small  and  homelike,  and  that  he 
might  go  there  with  confidence.  But  the  night  outside 
the  railroad  station  was  filled  with  blaze  and  blare.  Huge 
wagons  clattered,  cars  clanged  past;  it  was  a  world  of 
tumult  and  tangle.  He  had  accepted  the  directions  of 
the  paper  as  his  gospel  of  peregrination.  He  wondered  if 
he  would  be  disobeying  the  great  man  of  Attegat  if  he 
did  not  seek  the  hotel.  He  started  to  go,  prompted  by 
that  thought.  But  courage  failed  him  at  the  door  of  the 
station.  Within  the  big  room  there  were  many  benches. 
There  were  dim  corners.  He  was  sure  that  Representa 
tive  Clifford  would  forgive  him  if  he  did  not  brave  that 
wild  storm  of  humanity  in  the  streets.  So  he  sat  himself 
down  with  his  bucket  between  his  feet  and  resigned  him 
self  to  wait  for  day. 

He  was  at  the  end  of  his  journey;  he  was  in  the  city 
where  the  great  bishop  dwelt.  Now  that  the  distractions 
and  the  terrors  of  travel  were  behind  him  he  could  not 
divert  his  thoughts  from  what  lay  before  him.  He  quiv 
ered  with  the  intensity  of  his  awe.  A  night,  only  a  few 
hours  of  darkness,  between  him  and  the  duty  which 
weighed  upon  his  soul! 

"  You  will  tell  him  of  the  people.  You  will  describe  the 
little  farms  and  how  the  men  and  women  work  and  the 
children  long  to  learn  about  the  ways  that  will  make  them 
wise  and  able, ' '  Representative  Clifford  had  told  him.  ' '  It 

262 


THE    JOURNEY 

will  not  be  hard,  Billedeau,  when  you  have  opened  your 
mouth  and  have  started  to  talk.  You  know  it  all.  You 
know  all  the  people.  You  know  what  Pere  Leclair  has 
done  for  them.  The  words  will  come,  for  you  love  your 
friends.  It  will  not  be  hard." 

He  sat  there  gasping,  and  wondered  if  he  would  be 
able  even  to  open  his  mouth. 

To  be  sure,  he  had  the  packet  to  give  the  great  bishop. 
He  would  kneel  and  give  him  the  packet.  The  bishop 
would  look  at  it ;  he  would  read  the  names  and  the  won 
derful  writing  at  the  head  of  the  names  to  see  what  it 
all  was  about.  And  he,  Billedeau,  could  wet  his  lips  and 
open  his  mouth  and  be  ready  to  answer  the  questions. 
Then  he  would  fill  his  thoughts  with  all  the  children  of 
the  broad  parish,  the  little  children  who  looked  forward 
to  the  future  with  hope;  he  would  be  looking  at  the 
bishop's  feet,  and  he  would  shut  his  eyes  and  behold  all 
the  men  of  the  narrow  farms,  the  men  who  worked  so  hard 
and  earned  so  little ;  he  would  remember  the  women  and 
the  girls,  wistful  and  waiting  for  news  from  this  wonder 
ful  errand;  and,  most  urgent  spur  of  all,  he  would  have 
before  him  the  kind,  generous,  humble  little  priest  who 
had  been  sent  away  into  the  wilderness,  away  from  the 
stone  house  and  the  big  barn  and  all  he  had  worked  so 
long  for.  It  was  strange  that  he,  Anaxagoras  Billedeau, 
had  been  chosen  from  all  the  others  for  this  journey; 
well,  he  must  show  that  underneath  that  old  coat  of  his 
he  had  the  old  spirit  of  Acadia !  That  had  been  his  boast 
about  the  others  of  the  border.  Under  his  tremors  he 
felt  it  stir  now,  when  he  thought  of  the  poor  folks,  his 
good  friends,  waiting  to  hear  what  he  had  accomplished. 
Yes,  he  would  wait  for  the  day,  and  he  would  go  forth  and 
perform  this  duty  which  had  been  laid  upon  him !  Had  he 
not  had  all  favors  and  kindnesses  at  their  hands?  Should 

263 


THE    RED    LANE 

he  be  faltering  and  cowardly  now,  when  he  had  this  grand 
opportunity  for  repaying? 

Weariness  had  departed  from  him;  his  fears  were 
calmed.  He  waited  for  the  dawn. 

He  was  abroad  in  the  streets  with  the  first  daylight, 
for  the  streets  were  quiet  and  invited  him.  His  paper 
gave  him  simple  instructions:  he  was  to  ask  the  way  to 
the  bishop's  house  from  any  big  man  who  wore  brass  but 
tons  and  had  a  queer,  white  shell  of  a  chapeau.  This 
man,  so  he  was  told,  walked  the  streets  for  the  purpose 
of  being  kind  to  strangers — the  great  city  paid  him  money 
for  that  purpose;  so  the  fiddler  went  forward  courageously, 
peering  about,  searching  for  such  a  big  man.  He  followed 
the  directions  of  his  paper  with  implicit  faith  in  the  wis 
dom  of  the  man  who  had  written  thereon. 

He  walked  along,  his  heavy  bucket  on  his  arm. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  this  journey,  this  quest, 
might  have  been  simplified,  that  a  shrewder  escort  might 
have  been  his  shadow  as  far  as  the  bishop's  door.  He 
accepted  the  task,  as  it  was,  as  the  only  natural  mode  of 
procedure. 

Representative  Clifford,  in  his  sagacity,  had  weighed 
that  phase  of  the  matter.  Anaxagoras  Billedeau  had  come 
alone  from  the  north  country ;  his  ingenuousness  need  not 
be  tasked  by  those  who  might  ask  him  who  had  brought 
him  to  the  door  of  the  bishop's  house.  As  to  the  heading 
of  the  great  petition,  it  was  in  the  handwriting  of  Notary 
Pierre  Gendreau.  As  to  who  had  chosen  him?  Anaxag 
oras  Billedeau  knew  that  he  was  to  return  but  one  answer : 
he  was  to  say  simply  that  he  had  come  on  behalf  of  the 
people,  because  the  people  had  been  so  good  to  him. 

A  guileless  nature  must  not  be  charged  with  too  much 
toil  of  dissimulation.  So  Clifford  had  reflected  when  he 
had  pondered  upon  the  pilgrimage  of  this  "psychological 

264 


THE    JOURNEY 

instrument."  Billedeau  had  nothing  on  his  mind  except 
his  direct  duty,  and  now  he  walked  the  long  street  with 
martyr's  courage,  for  he  had  resolved  to  do  that  duty; 
yet  he  shivered  and  his  eyes  were  dimmed  by  black 
shadows  when  he  reflected  that  duty  was  leading  him  to 
the  mighty  bishop  of  the  diocese! 

He  came  at  last  to  a  huge  building,  the  most  mammoth 
structure  on  which  he  had  ever  laid  his  eyes.  He  took 
his  stand  at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  and  gazed  up  at  it. 
Monstrous  columns  supported  its  lofty  porch,  and  above 
the  roof  a  golden  dome  flashed  in  the  rays  of  the  rising 
sun. 

Poor  Fiddler  Billedeau  had  never  devoted  much  thought 
to  the  potentates  of  this  world.  Of  the  names  and  the 
qualities  and  the  state  and  the  abodes  of  rulers  he  was 
ignorant.  But  this  palace  seemed  to  be  fitted  for  the 
housing  of  that  one  whom  he  placed  above  all  others. 

He  lowered  his  eyes,  and  lo!  before  him  there  stood 
one  of  those  for  whom  he  had  been  seeking,  a  man  with 
brass  buttons  and  the  queer  hat.  This  man  was  eyeing 
the  strange  figure  of  the  fiddler  with  just  as  much  curiosity 
as  the  fiddler  displayed  in  his  own  gaze.  Thus  does  one 
half  of  the  world  seem  odd  to  the  other  half! 

Billedeau  was  startled  into  his  patois,  for  the  big  man 
had  hard  eyes. 

"L'Eveque —  j'aimerais  a  voir  1'Eveque,  M'sieur!" 

"Give  it  to  me  in  Yankee,  uncle." 

"The  bishop — the  great  bishop — I  have  come  to  see 
the  bishop,"  faltered  Anaxagoras.  "He  lives  there,  eh?" 

"Oh  no!  Not  in  City  Hall,  my  friend.  I'm  afraid  he 
wouldn't  mix  well  with  the  politicians." 

It  was  plain  that  he  was  a  kindly  man,  this  policeman. 
Once  more  was  the  old  fiddler  finding  that  ingenuous 
humility  begets  kindness  even  in  a  heedless  world.  The 

265 


THE    RED    LANE 

officer  drew  the  old  man  gently  along  the  sidewalk,  his 
clutch  on  his  elbow,  and  at  a  street  corner  pointed  over 
the  roofs. 

"That  spire,  my  friend — the  tall  spire  with  the  golden 
cross — that's  the  cathedral.  The  bishop's  house  is  right 
beside  it.  Follow  along  this  street,  take  the  next  turn 
to  the  right,  keep  your  eyes  on  the  cross." 

Billedeau  plodded  on,  shifting  his  bucket  from  side  to 
side,  his  chin  upraised,  his  eyes  on  the  cross.  The  early 
bustlers  in  the  street  made  way  for  him,  for  his  nose  was 
in  the  air  and  he  did  not  swerve.  Follow  the  cross!  To 
his  religious  nature  there  was  something  of  an  omen  in 
those  words  of  the  big  man  of  the  brass  buttons. 

His  heart  seemed  to  beat  high  up  and  chokingly  in  his 
throat.  Under  that  cross  he  would  find  the  bishop! 
There  was  his  goal !  The  moment  of  the  trial  of  his  forti 
tude  was  upon  him.  The  massive  visage  of  the  cathedral's 
facade  awed  him;  but  he  was  comforted,  also.  This  was 
his  church.  The  great  spirit  of  its  protection  seemed  to 
reach  out  from  it  and  envelop  him,  that  rusty  little  wan 
derer  from  the  north  country.  All  the  generations  of  de- 
voutness  behind  him  had  contributed  the  utter  faith,  the 
earnest  loyalty,  the  devoted  confidence  which  thrilled  his 
soul  as  he  came  into  the  shadow  cast  by  the  towering 
spire.  Here  was  his  church! 

Men  and  women  were  detaching  themselves  from  the 
growing  throng  of  the  street  and  were  going  into  the 
cathedral  through  the  great  door;  men  and  women  were 
coming  out  into  the  sunshine,  their  faces  showing  that 
they  had  been  for  a  few  moments  with  God. 

Anaxagoras  Billedeau  looked  upon  them  and  under 
stood  what  their  expressions  signified.  Of  all  of  them  he 
had  most  need  of  new  courage  with  which  to  face  duty. 
He  tiptoed  in  through  the  great  doors. 

266 


THE    JOURNEY 

The  vast  interior  was  dim  and  cool.  Far  away,  the 
altar  glowed  on  his  vision,  shafts  of  sunlight  illumining 
it.  There  were  queer,  muffled,  mystic  sounds,  little 
echoes  in  the  groined  arches  over  him,  those  sounds  one 
always  hears  in  spacious  interiors.  He  went  into  a  dim 
corner  and  set  his  bucket  down  and  kneeled,  his  eyes 
toward  the  altar,  and  prayed  for  courage.  He  did  not 
presume  to  ask  for  the  success  of  this  mission  of  his; 
surely  that  was  an  affair  too  great  for  his  poor  mind  to 
concern  itself  with.  That  was  in  the  hands  of  the  others. 
He  humbly  besought  that  he  might  be  able  to  perform 
that  which  he  had  been  sent  to  do.  Then,  comforted 
and  heartened,  he  picked  up  his  burden  and  went  out 
into  the  sunshine. 

In  his  absorption  he  took  no  account  of  time.  It 
seemed  as  though  a  whole  day  must  have  passed  since  he 
walked  out  of  the  railroad  station.  Everything  was  un 
real.  A  tower  clock  somewhere  clanged  six,  and  bells 
and  whistles  made  an  uproar,  but  Anaxagoras  Billedeau 
was  oblivious  to  all  but  his  errand.  He  passed  under  the 
archway  into  the  diocesan  grounds.  An  ivy-covered 
porte  cocker e  marked  the  entrance  to  the  great  bishop's 
house.  For  one  moment,  as  he  looked  that  way,  the  earth 
seemed  to  sway  and  heave  under  his  feet.  But  away  from 
that  dim  corner  in  the  great  cathedral  he  had  carried 
that  which  had  armored  his  spirit  and  panoplied  his  re 
solve  :  he  walked  sturdily  under  the  masonry  that  shroud 
ed  the  bishop's  door  and  rapped  on  the  bishop's  oak. 
There  was  a  bell,  but  he  knew  nothing  of  bells.  He 
waited,  but  no  one  came.  Then  he  rapped  again. 

At  last  the  door  was  opened  by  a  priest  whose  face 
expressed  some  wonderment  and  a  bit  of  vexation.  It 
was  a  father  who  had  been  assigned  for  the  early 
mass. 

267 


THE    RED    LANE 

"The  bishop,"  gasped  the  old  fiddler — "I  have  to  see 
the  great  bishop." 

"It  is  much  too  early  to  see  the  bishop,  my  good  man. 
And  it  is  not  easy  to  see  him  at  any  time.  Where  do  you 
come  from?"  The  priest  was  surveying  this  peculiar 
visitor  with  interest. 

"From  the  parish  of  Attegat,  father." 

The  priest  lifted  his  eyebrows. 

"I  come  with  names — with  the  names  of  the  poor  peo 
ple — for  the  sake  of  the  good  Pere  Leclair  they  have 
signed."  He  beat  his  hand  upon  the  thick  packet  in  his 
breast.  He  choked  back  his  excitement.  "It  is  sad  in 
Attegat,  and  I  have  come,  for  I  know  all  the  poor  folks. 
I  am  their  friend." 

"But  what  have  you  in  that  bucket?"  inquired  the 
priest,  suspiciously. 

"I  bring  what  I  eat,  for  I  am  the  poor  man.  I  do  not 
know  where  to  buy.  I  am  not  used  to  the  world  outside." 

"But  you  cannot  see  the  bishop  now.  This  is  all  very 
strange,  my  man.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  can  see 
him  at  all.  It  is  not  for  me  to  say.  You  must  ask  others. 
Come  again — come  at  nine  o'clock.  Ask  at  the  door  for 
Father  Callahan." 

Anaxagoras  stood  for  a  time  staring  disconsolately  at 
the  closed  portal.  From  the  front  of  the  bishop's  house 
stretched  a  lawn,  broken  with  shrubbery.  He  trudged 
gingerly  across  the  velvet  grass  and  sat  down  on  his  buc 
ket  behind  some  little  trees.  He  could  see  the  face  of  a 
tower  clock  over  the  roofs.  He  fixed  his  gaze  on  the  slow 
ly  moving  hands  and  waited  for  the  hour  of  nine.  The 
early  clatter  of  the  street  settled  into  the  dull  roar  of 
traffic.  He  could  hear  the  strange  cries  of  hucksters  be 
yond  the  wall  of  the  garden — meaningless  jargon ;  and  he 
wondered  what  all  this  babble  was  about,  and  was  infi- 

268 


THE    JOURNEY 

nitely  homesick  for  the  sloping  hills  and  the  blue  bosom 
of  the  fair  St.  John. 

Up  there,  when  he  rode  along  the  checkerings  of  shadow 
and  sunshine,  or  when  the  boys  and  girls  danced  before 
him  while  his  fiddle  sang,  ah,  how  the  moments  winged 
their  way !  Here,  where  he  was  so  lonely,  though  so  many 
of  humankind  flocked  about  him,  the  hands  of  the  great 
clock  seemed  to  make  hours  of  minutes.  When  he  looked 
away,  when  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  golden  cross  or 
peered  wistfully  at  the  closed  door  under  the  porte  cochbre, 
the  hands  seemed  to  stand  still. 

Father  Callahan — that  was  the  name!  It  was  strange 
to  his  Acadian  tongue,  and  he  repeated  it  many  times. 

When,  at  last,  after  an  eternity  of  waiting,  the  hands 
of  the  clock  marked  nine,  he  plodded  once  more  to  the 
door.  He  bore  his  blue  bucket  with  him;  it  was  some 
thing  of  Acadia  to  which  he  might  cling. 

"  Father  Callahan — I  am  to  see  him,"  he  told  the  acolyte 
who  opened  the  door.  "I  was  told  to  come  at  nine. 
Father  Callahan,  oui.  I  was  told  that,"  he  protested, 
eagerly,  for  doubt  smoldered  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  at  the 
door. 

The  door  was  swung  wider,  and  Anaxagoras  stumbled 
into  the  bare  hall,  with  its  stiff,  cold  wainscoting  and  the 
shiny  benches  where  petitioners  were  wont  to  wait. 

At  last  came  a  priest  who  was  burly,  broad  of  face,  one 
whose  heels  clicked  sharply  on  the  cement  floor. 

"And  now  what  is  it  you  want,  my  man?"  His  tones 
clicked  as  sharply  as  his  heels.  This  was  not  the  bishop; 
no,  this  was  very  much  a  man ;  the  old  fiddler  stammered 
the  name  he  had  been  repeating  and  received  prompt 
and  brusque  assurance  that  this  man  was  Father  Calla 
han. 

"You  have  papers  for  the  bishop,  you  say?"  broke  in 
269 


THE    RED    LANE 

the  priest,  after  Billedeau's  first  few  eager  words.  "Oh, 
you  cannot  see  the  bishop.  It  is  quite  out  of  the  ques 
tion." 

"But  I  have  come  from  Attegat  all  the  way,  my  father. 
I  have  come  because  I  know  the  poor  people  best.  I  bring 
the  papers  where  they  have  signed  their  names — waking 
in  the  night  to  sign  their  names — and  the  tears  are  on 
the  papers." 

"You  may  leave  what  papers  you  have  brought.  I 
will  lay  them  before  his  Right  Reverence  if  the  matter 
is  anything  for  his  eye." 

But  Billedeau,  his  trembling  hand  pressed  against  his 
coat  where  the  packet  was  buttoned  away,  did  not  seem 
to  understand. 

The  priest  extended  his  hand  and  snapped  his  finger 
sharply. 

"Give  me  the  papers,  I  say — whatever  they  can  be. 
It  is  my  business  to  look  after  such  matters." 

"But  only  I,  Anaxagoras  Billedeau,  of  the  long  border 
— only  I  can  explain  what  those  names  mean,"  quavered 
the  old  man,  apprehensively  clutching  the  packet.  "I 
can  point  out  the  names  to  the  great  bishop.  He  shall 
understand  them,  then:  this  is  Onesime*  Tetreault,  of  the 
withered  leg,  who  has  come  so  many  times  for  his  dole 
to  the  little  door  of  the  barn ;  this  is  Basil  Laliberte*,  who — " 

"And  what  is  this  all  about,  my  man?  We  are  very 
busy  here.  Speak  quickly.  Is  it  a  petition?  For  whom 
is  this  petition?" 

"We  ask  for  the  good  P£re  Leclair  back  again — it  is 
Attegat  who  begs.  I  am  the  very  humble  man,  good 
father.  But  you  shall  not  think  it  is  strange  that  I  have 
been  sent,  for  I  know  the  people — I  have  been  in  all  the 
homes." 

Another  priest  had  started  to  pass  through  the  hallway. 

270 


THE   JOURNEY 

He  paused  and  listened  with  momentary  interest,  for 
Billedeau  was  sobbing  his  entreaties. 

"Does  he  come  from  Attegat?"  this  priest  inquired  of 
Father  Callahan. 

"So  he  says." 

"That's  the  northern  parish  where  a  little  old  priest 
has  lost  his  head  over  some  matter  of  local  politics.  He 
has  been  transferred.  There's  an  end  of  it  all.  I  don't 
remember  the  details.  But  it  has  all  been  settled." 

He  passed  on  with  a  swish  of  his  cassock. 

"You  hear,  my  man!  It  has  been  settled.  Yet  you 
may  leave  your  papers  with  me.  Do  you  hear?  You 
may  leave  your  papers.  They  will  be  filed  with  the  re 
port  of  the  case.  However,  nothing  can  be  done.  It  is 
all  settled." 

Anaxagoras  stared  stupidly,  agony  ana  woe  and  doubt 
in  his  eyes. 

"I  have  come  the  many  miles.  I  have  come  all  the 
way  from  the  north  to  tell  the  bishop,  to  show  the  papers 
to  him." 

The  burly  priest  was  curt,  but  there  was  kindness  in 
him.  This  humble  messenger  of  the  wistful  eyes  caught 
hold  upon  his  sympathies.  Had  Representative  Clifford 
been  there  to  behold  he  would  have  had  fresh  faith  in 
"a  psychological  instrument."  But  only  for  an  instant! 

"The  bishop  is  not  strong.  Do  you  not  know  that  he 
is  a  very  old  man?  He  is  ill.  We  cannot  disturb  him 
with  matters  that  have  been  settled.  I  am  very  sorry 
you  have  come  so  far  on  a  useless  errand.  I  say,  you  may 
leave  your  papers.  That  is  all." 

But  the  old  man  did  not  loose  his  hold  on  the  precious 
packet. 

"I  must  give  them  to  him,"  he  muttered.  "I  cannot 
go  home  and  tell  them  I  did  not  do  my  duty." 

271 


THE    RED    LANE 

The  priest's  face  hardened.  He  waited  a  few  moments 
in  cold  silence. 

Then  he  turned  away.  Anaxagoras  looked  after  him 
without  speaking  or  imploring,  for  the  hopeful  thought 
came  to  him  that  perhaps  the  priest  was  going  to  inter 
cede  with  the  great  bishop.  The  father  spoke  to  the 
acolyte  and  passed  out  of  sight,  his  black  robe  dragging 
on  his  heels. 

The  acolyte  opened  the  door. 

"You  are  to  go,"  he  said.  When  the  old  fiddler  stood 
motionless,  he  pushed  him  gently  and  repeated  the 
command. 

"I  have  not  seen  the  bishop."  There  was  a  wail  in 
his  voice. 

"You  must  not  speak  loudly  here,  my  man.  You 
cannot  see  the  bishop.  He  is  ill.  Please  go  away  quietly." 

Without  exactly  understanding  why  his  feet  carried 
him  away,  the  old  man  found  himself  on  the  outside  of 
the  broad  door. 

He  had  been  dismissed,  he  had  been  sent  away,  and 
his  packet  was  still  where  Representative  Clifford  had 
buttoned  it!  Ah,  why  should  not  so  wise  a  man  as  the 
representative  have  known  that  poor  Billedeau  could 
not  do  the  great  deeds?  That  bitter  thought  whirled 
above  all  the  other  emotions  that  made  the  brain  of  the 
old  fiddler  dizzy.  Sobs  choked  him,  tears  flooded  his 
eyes.  He  staggered  away  into  the  bedlam  of  the  street. 
The  rush  of  humanity  terrified  him.  The  noises  dinned 
his  ears.  Far  away,  between  high  buildings,  he  saw  trees. 
He  dragged  himself  in  that  direction  like  a  stricken  animal 
who  seeks  refuge  by  instinct.  He  understood  trees ;  they 
understood  him.  He  was  homesick  for  trees,  for  the 
open.  Oh,  the  weary  miles  between  him  and  the  blue 
St.  John! 

272 


THE   JOURNEY 

It  was  a  park  to  which  he  came — a  spacious,  breezy, 
wooded  vista  where  birds  twittered  and  waters  splashed 
from  fountains.  He  hid  himself  away  from  the  paths  and 
sat  down  upon  his  bucket. 

The  lofty  golden  cross  was  still  within  the  range  of  his 
vision. 

So  he  must  go  back  to  far  Attegat  and  tell  his  people 
that  he  had  failed  so  miserably?  He  had  been  sent  and 
had  not  accomplished.  For  all  they  had  done  for  him 
in  the  years  when  they  had  received  him  at  their  boards 
he  had  returned  nothing,  eh? 

He  dashed  the  tears  from  his  eyes.  He  stood  up.  He 
took  off  his  faded  hat. 

"The  spirit  of  old  Acadia!"  he  murmured.  "Where  is 
that  spirit  in  me,  Anaxagoras  Billedeau?  Is  it  not  there 
— deep  underneath?  Is  it  not  there,  the  same  as  it  is 
in  Evangeline  Beaulieu  when  I  have  seen  her  eyes  shine 
and  the  soul  rise  up  behind  them?  Yes,  it  is  here.  I  will 
sleep  under  the  trees.  I  will  eat  the  crusts  from  my 
bucket.  I  will  stay.  I  have  been  sent  to  see  our  great 
bishop.  I  have  been  sent  to  tell  him  of  the  poor  people. 
Then,  by  Saint  Xavier,  I  swear  it!  I  will  tell  him!" 

Ah,  good  Patriarch  Clifford,  and  your  old  man's  in 
spiration  regarding  "psychological  instruments"! 


XXI 


THE   JUDAS    OF   ATTEGAT 

N  his  own  turn,  Louis  Blais  discovered 
something  about  the  instability  of  polit 
ical  fences! 

He  had  craftily  undermined  the  posts 
which  Representative  Clifford  had  set  so 
solidly  during  his  long  years  of  incum 
bency;  Attorney  Blais  had  softened  the  political  soil  with 
the  waters  of  race  prejudice  and  had  dug  diligently  with 
the  thin  trowel  of  falsehood.  He  felt  certain  that  on  the 
day  of  the  legislative  convention  he  could  huff  and  could 
puff  and  blow  that  Clifford  fence  down.  The  river-valley 
echoed  with  the  woe  and  wrath  of  the  men  who  had  been 
driven  off  the  disputed  lands.  In  the  soil  of  that  rancor 
Attorney  Blais  had  dug  his  own  post-holes.  The  fabric 
of  his  political  fence  seemed  good. 

But  the  high  ones  "outside" — as  the  border  called  the 
world — did  not  understand  the  politics  of  Attegat,  nor 
did  they  bother  to  find  out. 

In  the  first  place,  the  landowners  had  acted  when  their 
own  interests  suggested  action:  Clifford  suffered. 

Then  the  good  bishop,  incensed  by  what  had  been  re 
vealed  to  him  by  prejudiced  word  and  pen,  had  taken 
this  time  to  punish  a  priest  who  seemed  openly  disobedi 
ent.  An  act  which  is  removed  from  the  circumstances 
which  modify  it  fails  to  appear  in  its  true  light.  The 
bishop  saw  only  the  surface  from  a  distance;  unfortu- 

274 


THE    JUDAS    OF   ATTEGAT 

nately  he  lacked  the  intimate  and  sympathetic  knowledge 
that  would  enable  him  to  judge  rightfully  the  people  and 
conditions  of  that  far  border  of  his  diocese. 

Blais  was  a  young  politician,  an  impetuous  son  of  the 
people;  he  was  not  a  sagacious  politician,  however.  The 
priest  opposed  him.  Blais  obeyed  the  first  impulse  of 
resentment  instead  of  pondering  the  second  thought  of 
policy;  he  threw  that  priest  as  far  as  he  could. 

Then  Attorney  Blais  immediately  got  his  first  experi 
ence  in  the  danger  of  a  political  boomerang. 

Pere  Leclair,  present  in  Attegat,  was  a  bothersome  prop 
osition;  but  Pere  Leclair,  away  from  Attegat,  was  a 
force  which  had  flattened  the  Blais  fences. 

Present  in  Attegat  in  the  flesh,  Father  Leclair  could 
employ  only  word  and  precept. 

Absent  from  Attegat,  he  had  unwittingly  left  behind 
him  imagination,  grief,  resentment;  and  these  ghosts 
worked  more  effectually  among  the  mercurial  tempera 
ments  of  the  district  than  the  direct  agencies  the 
little  priest  could  have  employed  by  his  own  person 
ality. 

Louis  Blais  came  into  his  office,  away  from  the  male 
dictions  of  the  people,  and  wrapped  the  drapery  of  his 
frock-coat  about  him  and  sat  down  to  unpleasant  thoughts 
regarding  his  political  acumen. 

There  were  the  sullen,  growling,  dispossessed  settlers 
left  for  the  nucleus  of  his  strength  at  the  polls;  but  that 
grand  rush  for  him,  that  enthusiastic  rallying  to  protest 
against  Yankee  domination,  that  radical  confederation 
which  would  overwhelm  opposition  and  oust  the  old  poli 
tician  from  the  seat  he  had  occupied  for  so  long — Blais 
remembered  what  men  had  said  to  him  when  he  had  ven 
tured  to  show  his  head,  and  he  realized  that  the  grand 
rush  had  been  halted  suddenly  and  disastrously.  The 

275 


THE    RED    LANE 

people  were  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  make  him  atone  for  the 
mischief  he  had  wrought. 

Young  Attorney  Blais  sat  in  his  office  and  scowled  and 
muttered  and  pondered  until  twilight  dulled  the  hues  of 
the  sky  at  which  he  gazed  through  the  window.  He  wel 
comed  the  dusk.  He  rose  and  went  out  into  the  evening 
when  the  shadows  lay  deep  in  the  street  under  the  trees. 
He  did  not  flaunt  the  tails  of  his  frock-coat.  He  plodded 
somberly  along  until  he  came  to  the  stone  house  of  the 
parish  priest.  Somewhat  timorously  he  turned  in  at  the 
gate  and  Madame  Bissette  answered  his  rap — Madame 
Bissette  who  still  remained  at  the  stone  house,  for  she 
was  as  much  of  a  fixture  there  as  the  chimney  which  car 
ried  away  the  smoke  from  her  cook-fire. 

"Father  Horrigan?"     He  stammered  the  words. 

"He  walks  in  the  garden,"  she  said,  her  eyes  narrow 
ing  like  the  eyes  of  an  old  cat  who  had  been  pinched. 
"I  tell  you  that  only  because  I  have  to  tell  you  that  as 
the  priest's  housekeeper."  She  added,  in  the  patois  of 
the  border:  "But  for  myself  I  say  'Pig  that  rolls  in  mud! 
Long-tailed,  foul  bird !  Slimy  snail,  dragging  itself  across 
paper  and  leaving  lies  behind!'  "  She  slammed  the  door. 

The  aroma  of  a  good  cigar,  the  glow  of  its  coal,  directed 
the  attorney  to  Father  Horrigan,  who  strolled  on  the 
edge  of  the  turf  under  the  orchard  trees. 

"I  am  Louis  Blais,  the  attorney,  father.  I  wrote  the 
letter  to  the  Church  authorities.  So  I  thought  I  would 
come  and  see  you." 

Father  Horrigan  had  his  hands  behind  his  back  as  he 
strolled.  He  did  not  change  his  posture,  though  Blais 
timidly  put  his  own  hand  half-way  out  toward  the  priest. 
The  cigar  assumed  an  upward  slant,  and  the  father  swung 
past  and  walked  on.  He  came  back  presently  and  stopped 
in  front  of  the  young  man.  Blais  looked  up  at  the 

276 


THE   JUDAS    OF   ATTEGAT 

straight  brows  and  the  hard  eyes  and  did  not  find  it  easy 
to  say  any  more. 

"Yes,  I  have  read  the  letter,  Mr.  Attorney.  It  was 
what  might  be  called  a  letter  with  a  purpose;  the  purpose 
was  to  help  you  get  into  the  legislature." 

"But  it  was  not  right  for  a  priest  to  preach  politics  to 
the  people  from  the  pulpit." 

"Nor  for  a  candidate  to  use  the  Church  for  a  political 
weapon." 

"I  thought  the  bishop  ought  to  know,  Father  Horri- 
gan.  Now  that  you  are  here  I  hope  you  are  going  to 
understand  who  the  true  friends  of  the  good  cause  are." 

"I  shall  undoubtedly  find  out  after  I  have  been  here 
for  a  time,"  returned  the  new  pastor,  dryly. 

"  I  stand  against  the  Yankees  who  are  trying  to  destroy 
our  children  and  steal  their  birthright.  The  Yankee 
school  was  doing  that." 

"  Did  you  set  fire  to  it?"  asked  the  priest,  with  paralyz 
ing  bluntness. 

It  was  cynical,  almost  brutal  attack,  and  it  left  Blais 
without  words.  Father  Horrigan  puffed  his  cigar  and 
regarded  the  attorney  intently. 

"You  need  not  incriminate  yourself — or  your  friends. 
Not  now!  Matters  that  are  hidden  and  ways  that  are 
dark  are  revealed  at  last  when  the  light  has  been  turned 
on.  I  want  to  tell  you  this,  Mr.  Attorney!  He  who 
brings  reproach  on  his  friends  or  on  his  Church  by  acts 
which  are  prompted  by  his  own  malice  and  for  his  own 
ends  is  a  wicked  wretch,  and  punishment  will  surely 
come.  Would  you  have  it  go  forth  to  the  world  that 
our  great  Church  opposes  the  education  of  the  young — we 
who  give  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  children?  We  are 
jealous  of  our  own  rights,  sir,  but  we  are  not  enemies  to 
good  works." 

19  277 


THE    RED    LANE 

The  young  attorney  gasped  without  being  able  to  voice 
retort.  This  masterful  man  who  had  come  from  "the 
outside"  astonished  him.  Till  then  the  provincialism  of 
Attegat  had  hedged  Blais.  He  had  never  taken  broad 
views  of  great  questions.  He  began  to  realize  dimly  that 
he  was  not  the  important  figure  he  had  dreamed  that  he 
was.  He  was  not  to  be  taken  into  the  councils  of  the 
high  ones,  so  it  seemed. 

"I  am  called  successful  in  matters  of  discipline,"  stated 
the  priest,  softening  his  aspect  slightly.  "I  do  not  desire 
to  be  too  harsh  with  you,  my  son.  But  it  seems  that  we 
have  not  known  this  parish  of  Attegat  as  we  should  have 
understood  it.  It  thrived  on  love  and  simple  faith  in 
the  old  days  of  peace  on  earth.  But  it  seems  to  have  come 
on  times  when  peace  is  ruffled  by  greed  and  general  mis 
understandings.  So  there  has  come  a  crisis  in  Attegat. 
We  must  put  in  the  knife  so  that  we  may  understand.  It 
is  painful,  is  it  not?  The  priest  who  has  been  sent  away 
was  a  good  man  who  did  not  understand  that  love  and 
meekness  and  humility  cannot  solve  all  the  human  prob 
lems.  You  cannot  make  a  saint  by  piling  up  all  the 
virtues  unless  you  stick  an  iron  backbone  into  the  mass. 
We  shall  see  here  in  Attegat.  That  is  all,  my  son." 

He  resumed  his  march  up  and  down  the  edge  of  the 
turf. 

Blais  was  astonished,  and  he  was  not  satisfied.  He 
waited  until  Father  Horrigan  had  completed  a  few  turns. 

"I  think  /  am  entitled  to  help,  instead  of  that  white- 
whiskered  old  Yankee  who  wants  to  sell  out  this  district 
and  run  all  those  people,"  he  cried,  bracing  his  courage. 

"What  help?" 

Blais  hesitated  a  little  while,  but  his  resentment  at  the 
manner  in  which  his  espionage  and  his  reports  had  been 
received  made  him  bold. 

278 


THE   JUDAS    OF    ATTEGAT 

"I  am  fighting  for  what  the  Church  wants,"  he  began. 
"You  need  not  tell  me  the  inside  unless  you  are  willing 
to — I  am  no  man  to  pry.  But  if  you  don't  back  me — " 

Father  Kerrigan  tossed  away  his  cigar  when  Blais  be 
gan  hotly.  While  the  young  man  spoke  he  moved  slowly 
toward  him.  He  interrupted  the  attorney  by  clutching 
him  suddenly  by  the  collar  and  shaking  him  until  Blais 
danced  on  his  tiptoes.  Then  the  militant  son  of  the  Church 
propelled  his  visitor,  brawny  hand  twisted  in  the  fabric 
of  the  frock-coat,  around  the  corner  of  the  stone  house 
and  into  the  highway. 

"You'd  better  run,"  the  priest  suggested,  when  he 
loosed  his  captive.  He  gave  Blais  a  push.  "I'm  gen 
erally  successful  in  matters  of  discipline,  but  sometimes  I 
fail  to  control  my  own  self." 

The  attorney  did  not  run  as  directed,  but  he  hurried. 

He  did  not  understand  at  all.  His  little  mind  had  been 
made  dizzy  by  this  answer  to  his  overtures  for  help. 
With  the  suspiciousness  of  small  natures  he  convinced 
himself  that  some  strange,  deep  plot  had  been  hatched  in 
high  quarters,  and  his  mind  picked  at  the  outside  of  the 
thing  like  a  monkey  at  a  hard  nut. 

He  met  no  one  on  the  street;  and  he  was  glad  of  that, 
for  it  seemed  as  though  that  coat  had  been  permanently 
humped  by  the  clutch  of  the  priest's  hand.  His  cheeks 
burned,  and  his  soul  burned,  too.  He  was  in  the  mood 
to  run  amuck,  to  cut  and  slash.  He  felt  that  he  had 
been  used  and  thrown  aside.  He  had  essayed  to  be  the 
leader  of  his  people;  he  had  been  manhandled  like  a 
school-boy  caught  at  stealing  apples. 

So  he  trudged  to  his  office;  and  on  the  outside  stairs, 
sitting  in  the  shadow,  he  found  David  Roi,  who  stated 
gruffly  that  he  had  been  waiting. 

Blais  unlocked  the  door  and  they  went  in.  The  attor- 
279 


THE    RED    LANE 

ney  did  not  light  his  lamp.  He  stamped  up  and 
down  the  room  in  the  dark,  bursting  with  bitter 
words. 

"You  and  I  don't  seem  to  be  very  solid  with  the  priests," 
commented  Roi,  when  he  had  understood  the  cause  of 
this  explosion.  "It  must  be  that  we  are  pretty  wicked, 
Louis.  If  we  hit  a  priest  we  get  hit  back;  if  we  help  a 
priest  we  get  hit  harder.  But  I'm  not  here  to  talk  of 
priests  or  politics." 

"You've  got  to  talk  of  both  if  you're  going  to  talk 
with  me  now,"  raged  the  attorney.  "There's  a  conven 
tion  due  here — and  I'm  going  down  to  that  next  legis 
lature." 

"Where  will  you  get  the  votes  now?"  asked  Roi,  with 
a  half  sneer.  "You  have  kicked  over  your  pail  of  milk, 
so  all  the  boys  tell  me.  Better  give  it  up  this  time, 
Louis.  Stay  at  home,  and  I'll  put  you  in  the  way  of  as 
much  money  as  you  can  steal  out  of  politics." 

"Oh,  can  you?"  snarled  the  candidate,  mocking  Roi's 
sneer.  He  came  to  the  table  where  Roi  sat  and  beat 
a  tattoo  there  with  the  flat  of  his  hand.  "I'm  going 
to  talk  plainly  to  you,  Dave.  You  may  as  well  know 
it  all.  You  know  a  lot  about  me.  We'll  make  a  clean 
sweep  of  the  inside  facts,  as  partners  ought  to  do.  Here's 
the  point!"  He  gulped,  for  the  confession  came  hard, 
even  when  he  owned  up  to  the  scamp  who  squinted  at 
him  in  the  gloom.  "The  timber-land  owners  are  be 
hind  me." 

"But  not  in  the  same  way  they're  behind  the  squatters, 
eh?  A  brad  in  one  end  of  the  goad  for  the  squatters  and 
a  gold  knob  on  the  other  end  for  you,  Louis!"  Roi 
laughed  sarcastically. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be  with  the  timber-land  owners? 
They  have  the  law  behind  them.  If  men  have  been  fools 

280 


THE    JUDAS    OF   ATTEGAT 

enough  to  squat  on  land  that  doesn't  belong  to  'em  they 
ought  to  expect  to  take  the  consequences." 

"Oh,  I  don't  propose  to  argue  the  thing  with  you, 
Louis!  Go  ahead  on  the  job.  I'll  only  say,  as  somewhat 
of  a  renegade  myself,  that  you  belong  at  the  head  of 
our  class.  Don't  get  mad.  Take  it  as  a  compli 
ment." 

"I  take  it  as  an  insult — but  no  matter.  We  can't 
afford  to  fight,  Dave.  If  I'm  in  the  legislature  I  can  handle 
this  district  so  that  the  land  men  can  get  by  in  this  thing 
without  a  big  uproar  and  a  scandal.  The  squatters  have 
got  to  get  off  those  lands  and  stay  off.  That's  a  sure 
thing.  I  may  as  well  be  in  on  the  deal  and  make  a  dollar. 
The  people  won't  be  any  worse  off.  I'm  worth  money 
to  the  timber  men.  They  realize  it.  They  are  willing 
to  pay.  I  have  got  a  good  slice  of  money  already.  I 
can't  lie  down  now,  Dave.  Let  me  get  up  there  to  the 
legislature  and  I  can  do  a  whole  lot  of  hushing  for  the 
sake  of  the  land  men.  I'm  one  of  the  Acadians,  ain't  I? 
My  word  about  conditions  up  here  will  go  a  long  way.  It 
all  means  big  money,  Dave,  and  I'm  after  it." 

"I  always  supposed  they  had  old  Clifford  in  their  pay," 
remarked  Roi. 

"  I  see  my  campaign  talk  has  got  into  your  system  as  it 
has  into  other  chaps,"  said  Blais,  chuckling.  "I  think 
I  did  a  good  job  in  that  line.  But  I'll  tell  you  confi 
dentially,  Dave,  the  old  fool  never  took  a  dishonest  cent. 
He  don't  know  enough  to  get  in  with  the  bunch.  They 
have  tried  to  handle  him  before  now.  That's  the  reason 
the  big  men  want  to  sidetrack  him  for  this  session.  He'll 
go  down  there  and  be  sassy,  and  he  may  be  able  to  get 
folks  to  listen  to  him.  The  timber-land  owners  have  got 
a  hint  that  he's  fumbling  around  now  with  some  kind  of 
a  fool  scheme  for  squaring  the  settlers  on  this  land  deal — 

281 


THE    RED    LANE 

and  if  the  people  are  squared  it  means  that  the  owners 
lose.  The  mallet  is  out  for  old  Clifford." 

"But  the  handle  seems  to  be  cracked,"  suggested  the 
smuggler,  still  satiric.  He  did  not  appear  to  take  Blais's 
troubles  seriously.  "Have  they  left  it  to  you  to  give 
him  the  knockout  blow?" 

"Thousand  devils!  they  can't  show  themselves  in  the 
thing,"  cried  the  attorney.  "They  left  it  to  me.  I  told 
them  I  could  handle  it.  I  thought  I  had  fixed  it." 

"Young  men  are  always  too  certain — especially  when 
they  have  been  wasting  their  time  in  school,"  drawled 
Roi.  "I  am  older  than  I  look.  I  have  been  outdoors 
on  the  border." 

"I  can't  go  to  'em  now  and  own  up  that  I  have  messed 
the  thing — that  I  can't  carry  this  district.  I've  got  to 
win." 

"You  proposed  to  win  by  working  your  mouth  instead 
of  spending  the  money  your  crowd  gave  you.  That's 
another  bad  mistake,  Louis.  It's  all  right  to  fool  the 
farmers,  but  you  shouldn't  try  to  hold  out  on  the  boys. 
I've  been  keeping  an  eye  on  you,  and  I've  been  guessing 
some  of  this.  I've  got  money  enough  of  my  own.  But 
I  don't  want  to  see  the  boys  trimmed.  Let  the  farmers 
keep  on  holding  the  empty  bag  you've  passed  to  'em.  But 
you  can't  treat  the  boys  that  way.  Now  own  up!  You 
need  my  help — you  need  the  boys,  don't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I'm  willing  to  turn  a  trick  to  help  the  boys; 
and  I'll  be  reasonable  with  you,  for  at  the  same  time  I'm 
going  to  do  a  little  something  for  myself.  My  old  father 
used  to  know  how  to  handle  a  border  caucus  in  the  days 
when  politics  was  hot  up  this  way.  I've  had  some  good 
lessons,  Louis.  So  when  I  say  cash  in  advance  you  will 
understand  that  I'm  not  taking  money  under  false  pre- 
282 


THE    JUDAS    OF    ATTEGAT 

tenses.     When  they  handed  you  your  retainer  it  came  in 
cash,  didn't  it?" 

The  attorney  growled  an  affirmative. 

"Then  dig  up!  Lay  down  five  dollars  for  each  man — 
day's  wages.  I'll  bring  one  hundred  across  the  border. 
Lay  down  another  hundred.  That's  a  dollar  for  each 
man  for  his  supply  of  white  rum.  You  see,  I'm  going 
into  the  items  of  the  account  with  you,  Louis.  No  flim 
flam  here.  You  put  in  the  money  for  what  you  want  done 
on  convention  day.  I'll  put  in  the  time  for  what  I  want 
done.  We'll  just  about  strike  a  balance." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  hundred  men — 
for  me,  I  mean?" 

Blais,  though  new  in  politics,  had  a  general  idea  of 
what  this  incursion  would  mean,  but  he  wanted  to  be 
fully  in  the  know,  as  employer. 

"Why,  it  simply  means  that  a  hundred  good  men  will 
be  on  hand  to  see  that  the  polls  are  kept  open  and  the 
ballots  pure — that  a  lot  of  ringers  are  not  run  up  to  the 
ballot-box  by  that  old  fox  of  a  politician,  your  friend 
Clifford." 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"A  wink  goes  with  that  statement,  Louis.  But  it  is 
too  dark  here  in  this  room  for  you  to  see  a  wink.  So 
I  will  talk  plain:  I  will  post  those  hundred  men  around 
the  door  of  the  polling  place,  and  they  will  simply  crowd 
together  and  make  elbowing  through  to  the  ballot-box 
mighty  hard  work  for  any  man  who  doesn't  come  vouched 
for  and  carrying  a  Blais  ballot.  It's  the  good  old  trick 
my  dad  used  to  work.  It's  effective.  It  isn't  riot.  It 
isn't  intimidation.  It's  an  interested  crowd  of  spectators 
— and  there  are  no  policemen  up  this  way!" 

"But  the  other  crowd  may  start  something — they  have 
been  pretty  well  stirred  up!" 

283 


THE    RED    LANE 

"Then  all  the  blame  for  a  disturbance  at  the  polls  will 
be  laid  on  Representative  Clifford's  crowd.  But  there 
won't  be  much  of  a  disturbance,"  stated  Roi,  a  rasp  in 
his  tones.  "The  boys  I  team  chaw  red  meat  with  plenty 
of  pepper  sauce  on  it.  The  men  on  this  side  of  the  river 
who  are  really  mad  are  your  men,  the  chaps  who  have 
been  crowded  off  their  lands.  I  reckon  you  can  depend 
on  them  to  come  to  the  polls  and  vote  against  'a  white- 
bearded  old  Yankee  who  has  sold  out  to  the  timber-land 
owners  and  has  let  this  trouble  come  upon  them!'  That 
last  is  quoted.  It's  an  extract  from  one  of  Blais's  speeches. 
You  and  I  know  Acadians!  The  rest  of  the  crowd  will 
be  made  up  of  those  men  who  have  been  bawling  and 
lallylooing  about  Pere  Leclair's  transfer.  You  will  never 
see  that  bunch  getting  together  and  rushing  a  gang  of 
my  boys  for  the  sake  of  having  the  chance  to  drop  a  ballot 
for  a  Yankee  they  suspect — thanks  to  what  you've  been 
telling  them.  Therefore,  Louis,  if  you  really  want  to 
make  good  with  your  people  and  go  to  the  legislature, 
count  out  the  coin.  You  should  have  done  that  in  the 
first  place  instead  of  working  your  mouth  so  much. 
Straight-arm  work  is  my  idea.  You  have  got  all  tangled 
up  in  your  own  plots." 

He  banged  his  fist  on  the  table,  as  though  he  had  marked 
a  blunt  period  to  that  subject. 

"Now,  what  about  my  sweetheart,  Evangeline?  Have 
you  been  watching  her,  Louis?" 

"She  is  at  her  school  daytimes  and  at  Madame  Ouil- 
lette's  the  rest  of  the  time,"  returned  the  attorney,  not 
relishing  this  summary  dismissal  of  his  own  business. 
"  Now  about  the  caucus !  If  I — " 

"Damn  your  caucus.  It  is  settled — it  is  carried!" 
blurted  Roi,  with  a  flirt  of  his  hand  above  his  head. 

In  his  turn  he  began  to  pace  the  room.     He  kicked 

284 


THE    JUDAS    OF   ATTEGAT 

against  a  chair  in  the  darkness.  He  flung  the  offending 
furniture  away  with  an  oath. 

"I  say  straight-arm  work  is  what  counts.  I'm  going 
to  turn  a  trick  myself,  Louis.  It  will  be  a  trick  that  can't 
be  spoiled  by  a  fluke  and  a  pack  of  hound  dogs.  By  the 
gods,  I  would  have  killed  that  customs  sneak  before  now 
if  I  hadn't  got  something  better  up  my  sleeve  for  him. 
You  leave  it  to  me,  Louis,  when  I  hate  a  man  as  I  hate 
that  whelp,  I've  got  something  waiting  for  him  that  will 
tie  his  eternal  soul  into  a  bow-knot.  You  wait.  You 
listen.  It  will  drop  when  I  get  ready  to  have  it  drop. 
But  it  has  got  to  ripen  and  drop  itself.  No,  I  won't  tell 
you!  I'm  done  taking  advice  from  you.  You  planned 
that  other  thing,  didn't  you?  And  what  happened? 
I'll  run  this  myself.  I  can  wait  to  get  Aldrich  where  I 
want  him.  But  I  can't  wait  any  longer  where  that  girl 
is  concerned.  You  can  have  that  bunch  of  men  for  your 
caucus,  but  when  that  caucus  is  over  they'll  do  a  job  for 
me." 

"Do  you  mean  you're  going  to  make  a  break  for  the 
girl  and  carry  her  away?" 

"Just  that,  exactly." 

"It  will  be  a  pretty  rank  job,  Dave." 

"I  don't  care — not  that!"  He  clacked  his  ringer  into 
his  palm.  "It  has  been  rubbed  into  my  hide  in  good 
shape — I'll  proceed  to  rub  back.  Evangeline  is  going 
along  with  the  man  she  belongs  to,  and  if  any  one  gets 
underfoot  he'll  get  stepped  on." 

"Will  old  Vetal  show  up?" 

"Probably  not."  The  smuggler  had  hesitated  a  mo 
ment  before  he  answered. 

"It  will  take  considerable  of  the  curse  off  it  if  he  is 
on  hand,"  insisted  the  attorney.  "You  can  do  a  lot  of 
dirt  on  the  border,  Dave,  if  you've  got  the  men  behind 

285 


THE    RED    LANE 

you,  but  there's  no  use  in  piling  on  agony  just  for  the 
sake  of  making  rough-house." 

"Beaulieu  won't  be  here — that's  settled!"  There  was 
queer  restraint  in  Roi's  tones.  "I'll  talk  to  you  later, 
Louis,  about  something  I'm  not  ready  to  talk  about  yet 
awhile.  Just  now  I'm  simply  giving  you  the  tip  that 
I'm  going  to  grab  a  good  opportunity.  Evangeline  Beau- 
lieu  belongs  to  me.  I'm  going  to  have  her." 

"Her  money  belongs  to  you,  too,  when  you  get  her," 
suggested  the  attorney,  with  vivid  recollection  of  the  will 
he  had  drawn.  "I  don't  blame  you  for  going  after  her 
strong,  Dave,  but  you've  got  to  remember  that  your 
hundred  men  won't  be  the  only  men  in  the  village  of 
Attegat  on  convention  day — and  Acadians  will  fight  for 
a  woman  when  they  won't  fight  for  politics.  You'd  better 
go  at  it  another  way,"  he  pleaded,  his  fears  for  his  own 
affairs  prompting  him  more  than  any  consideration  for 
the  girl. 

"I  have  tried  the  other  way.  The  sneak  job  didn't 
work.  I  know  an  opportunity  when  I  see  one.  Now, 
Louis,  dig  up  that  coin.  I  want  to  be  out  of  here." 

Blais  drew  the  curtain,  lighted  a  small  lamp  and  opened 
his  safe.  He  counted  off  bills  with  the  reluctance  of  a 
poor  man  who  fingers  money  in  amount  for  the  first  time. 

"Seeing  that  you're  proposing  to  get  the  girl  and  cinch 
all  of  Beaulieu's  money  by  the  same  job,  you  ought  to 
share  expenses,  it  seems  to  me,"  he  growled,  pausing  in 
his  counting. 

"Oh,  stolen  money  is  easy  money.  Hellions,  like  my 
men,  work  best  for  that  kind  of  money.  If  you  want  my 
goods  you've  got  to  pay  for  'em,  Louis." 

He  stuffed  the  bills  into  his  pocket  after  Blais  had 
grudgingly  counted  down  the  last  one. 

"It's  a  great  game,  Louis,"  he  said,  jeeringly.  "I'll 
286 


THE    JUDAS    OF    ATTEGAT 

bring  my  wife  down  to  the  State  Capitol  and  hear  you 
make  a  speech  on  the  prospects  and  progress  of  our  glori 
ous  Acadia  under  the  new  deal  which  the  kind  owners 
of  the  timber-land  are  giving  the  people." 

He  hurried  away  and  left  the  attorney  gloomily  count 
ing  the  remainder  of  the  money  he  had  taken  as  the  price 
of  the  betrayal  of  his  kin  and  neighbors. 


XXII 

THE   THREAT   OF   THE   SINISTER   HUNDRED 

VEN  the  birds  who  sang  matins  in  the 
trees  which  bordered  the  highways  and 
lanes  of  the  broad  parish  of  Attegat  knew 
that  this  day  was  not  like  other  days. 

The  rumble  of  wheels,  the  patter  of 
hoofs,  the  creak  of  harness,  and  the  rattle 
of  whiffletrees  had  sounded  early  in  the  gray  dawn  in  the 
remoter  sections  of  the  district.  The  birds  had  been 
awakened.  Swaying  buckboards,  heavily  loaded  with 
men,  passed  under  the  boughs.  Voices  chattered  or 
mumbled. 

Nearer  to  Attegat  village,  where  roads  converged  and 
the  lanes  made  union  with  the  main  highway,  the  rising 
sun  lighted  the  way  for  many  wagons  loaded  with  many 
men.  One  after  the  other  the  conveyances  swung  into 
line  as  they  met  here  and  there,  and  when  the  main  street 
of  the  village  was  reached  the  buckboards  were  strung 
along  in  steady  procession. 

Men  came  trudging  into  the  hamlet,  dusty  men  from 
far  farms,  who  joined  others  on  the  way  and  formed 
groups  of  plodders. 

The  buckboards  stretched  long  tails  into  the  street 
where  the  horses  were  hitched  to  the  gnawed  posts,  and 
men  sifted  among  the  vehicles,  talking  earnestly. 

It  was  no  gay  convocation,  this  flocking  to  the  legis- 

288 


THE  THREAT  OF  THE  HUNDRED 

lative  convention  of  Attegat.     The  faces  were  serious; 
the  tones  were  low. 

Norman  Aldrich,  in  his  room  under  the  rafters  of  the 
old  tavern,  was  awakened  early  by  the  stir  in  the  streets. 
He  had  arrived  late  at  Attegat  the  evening  before,  after 
a  tour  of  duty  along  the  border — a  fortnight  of  tense 
activity  that  had  produced  comforting  results,  viewed 
officially,  for  he  had  turned  over  to  the  United  States 
deputy  marshals  a  half-dozen  sullen  smugglers.  He  felt 
that  he  had  earned  the  privilege  of  attending  the  Attegat 
convention. 

His  window  looked  out  upon  the  inn's  courtyard.  He 
heard  the  voices  of  men.  One  voice  was  loud,  insistent — 
the  voice  of  a  braggart,  a  hateful  voice.  Its  timbre 
stirred  vague  resentment  in  the  officer.  When  he  peered 
down  through  the  dingy  glass  of  his  window  he  under 
stood  why  that  tingle  of  anger  had  thrilled  him:  the  law 
less  son  of  old  Blaze  Condon  was  the  center  of  the  knot 
of  men.  He  was  passing  a  bottle,  insisting  profanely 
that  no  man  could  afford  to  slight  his  hospitality. 

Aldrich's  first  indignant  impulse  was  to  rush  down  and 
collar  the  rogue  who  had  ambushed  him  and  who  now 
was  impudently  venturing  on  United  States  territory. 
But,  after  he  had  scrutinized  Condon's  companions, 
prudence  suggested  more  wily  measures.  Those  compan 
ions  were  not  men  of  Attegat;  Aldrich  was  sure  of  that. 
They  were  of  another  type ;  they  were  plainly  men  from 
the  Province.  The  officer  knew  the  men  of  the  border 
well  enough  to  discern  their  character  as  well  as  their 
habitat.  He  had  seen  such  men  before — reckless,  swag 
gering  men  from  the  woods  and  hidden  clearings,  men 
from  the  high  hills  east  of  the  St.  John.  They  were  of 
the  sort  that  David  Roi  captained  when  he  needed  help 
for  his  exploits. 

289 


THE    RED   LANE 

Aldrich  hurried  with  his  toilet,  worried,  wondering, 
apprehensive.  Those  swashbuckling  aliens  did  not  prom 
ise  a  comfortable  element  for  the  side-lines  of  a  political 
meeting. 

He  found  more  of  the  same  ilk  in  the  big  room  of  the 
tavern  when  he  went  down-stairs — men  who  bawled  coarse 
remarks  and  laughter  after  him  when  he  passed  through 
on  his  way  to  his  breakfast. 

While  he  was  eating  he  saw  several  buckboards  halt  in 
the  yard;  and  more  of  those  outsiders  alighted  and  were 
hailed  boisterously  by  their  friends.  Under  the  coat- 
tails  of  all  of  them  bottles  bulged  prominently.  It  was 
plain  that  intimidation  and  interference  were  to  play  their 
part  at  the  Attegat  convention! 

Aldrich,  out  of  his  meager  knowledge  of  politics,  had 
built  much  on  the  revulsion  of  feeling  in  Attegat,  on  the 
reawakened  loyalty  to  Father  Leclair.  He  had  ridden 
through  the  night  seeking  names  for  the  petition;  he  had 
heard  the  people  voice  laments  and  swear  to  obey  the  good 
priest  and  follow  his  advice.  He  had  been  sure  that  only 
the  surly  and  the  rebellious  would  stand  behind  Blais  at 
the  polls.  He  knew  that  there  were  not  enough  of  these 
to  nominate  the  demagogue.  He  had  even  indulged  the 
fond  hope  that  out  of  Clifford's  sagacity  the  affair  of  Pere 
Leclair  had  been  settled,  and  that  the  priest  would  be 
present  this  day  as  mediator  between  the  factions.  He 
had  been  tempted  to  rap  upon  the  door  of  the  stone  house 
the  evening  before,  when  he  passed  that  way,  and  ask  for 
news — perhaps  shake  the  hand  of  the  little  priest!  Clif 
ford  had  been  so  confident;  the  bishop  was  certainly  a 
good  man,  and  he  would  understand  this  humble  petition 
from  his  loyal  people  of  the  north !  Aldrich,  while  he  had 
ridden  the  border,  had  allowed  his  optimism  to  whisper 
all  this  comfort  in  his  ear. 

290 


THE  THREAT  OF  THE  HUNDRED 

But  when  he  saw  what  sort  of  men  were  sifting  into 
Attegat  every  few  minutes  he  realized  that  his  optimism 
had  taken  refuge  in  flight  on  the  back  of  the  dove  of  peace ! 

In  the  long  street  he  found  many  of  the  honest  citizens 
of  the  district — habitant  farmers  with  the  fuzzy  gray 
clothes  of  homespun,  bateau-men  with  gaudy  jackets  of 
wool,  choppers  with  belted  waists  and  checkered  shirts, 
but  sprinkled  among  them  were  the  sinister  strangers. 
Such  men  had  filtered  through  the  groups  of  citizens  when 
the  fire  had  destroyed  the  big  school;  Aldrich,  with  bitter 
apprehension,  feared  that  on  this  day  they  had  brought 
fire-brands  of  another  nature  with  which  to  put  the  torch 
to  the  tinder  of  Acadian  temperament. 

As  he  stood  studying  the  moving  groups  one  of  the 
strangers  lounged  up  and  stopped  beside  him.  The  man 
gave  Aldrich  a  disquieting  sidelong  stare  from  the  cor 
ners  of  his  eyes  and  spoke  through  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"Where  is  Vetal  Beaulieu?" 

The  officer  checked  an  impulse  to  return  a  hot  word, 
and  replied,  stiffly:  "I  would  like  to  find  out  where  he 
is  myself.  I  have  been  hunting  for  him  for  some  weeks." 

"So  I  have  heard.  But  where  did  you  leave  him — 
that  is  to  say,  what  was  left  of  him?" 

'  See  here,  my  man,  whoever  you  may  be,  I  tell  you  I 
have  been  trying  to  find  Vetal  Beaulieu!  His  place  is 
locked.  It  has  been  locked  for  some  weeks.  I  have  been 
there  several  times.  I  was  there  for  the  last  time  day 
before  yesterday.  The  door  has  not  been  opened  since 
I  was  there  a  fortnight  or  more  ago.  There!  I  have 
told  you  what  I  know.  Suppose  you  return  the  compli 
ment.  Why  do  you  come  to  me  asking  about  Vetal 
Beaulieu?" 

"Because  I  believe  in  asking  the  man  who  knows." 
The  fellow  leered  at  Aldrich  and  swung  away. 

291 


THE    RED    LANE 

The  air  and  the  tones  were  full  of  insult.  Aldrich 
stared  after  his  questioner  wrathfully.  Another  man 
strolled  up  and  plucked  him  by  the  elbow. 

"Where  is  Vetal  Beaulieu?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

' '  Confound  your  impudence !' '  blazed  the  officer.  ' '  How 
should  I  know  where  Beaulieu  is?" 

"You  ought  to  know.  The  talk  was  made  in  the  open. 
The  border  knew  it.  It  was  either  you  or  him!  And 
you  seem  to  be  healthy." 

This  man  went  on  into  the  crowd  before  Aldrich  could 
stop  him. 

While  he  was  still  muttering  his  resentment  a  third 
stranger  accosted  him,  bending  his  face  so  close  that  he 
puffed  fumes  of  liquor  into  the  officer's  nostrils. 

"Where  is  Vetal  Beaulieu?" 

Aldrich  caught  the  man  by  his  coat  lapels. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  owed  him  money  that  he  didn't  collect.  If  I  knew 
where  you  left  him  I'd  spend  that  money  in  flowers  and 
decorate  the  place." 

The  man  struck  away  the  restraining  hands  with  a 
vicious  blow  and  went  into  the  throng,  laughing. 

This  persecution,  astounding,  mysterious,  ominous,  was 
proving  as  shocking  as  it  was  exasperating. 

The  officer  noted  that  the  bystanders  were  surveying 
these  low-voiced  colloquies  with  increasing  interest.  He 
strode  away.  But  before  he  was  out  of  the  tangle  of  men 
and  teams  in  the  village  street  he  was  accosted  by  three 
other  men  who  asked  the  same  question  and  escaped  with 
celerity.  He  was  too  angry  to  make  further  retort. 

When  he  was  beyond  the  houses  of  Attegat  he  turned 
off  the  highway  and  took  the  path  across  the  fields  toward 
the  dwelling  of  Representative  Clifford.  He  was  eager 
for  news  regarding  the  affair  of  Pere  Leclair.  He  was 

292 


THE  THREAT  OF  THE  HUNDRED 

anxious  to  inform  the  patriarch  of  the  presence  of  the 
sinister  strangers  in  the  village. 

Since  early  light  the  old  man  had  paced  the  creaking 
boards  of  his  narrow  porch,  pausing  as  he  made  the  turns, 
listening,  gazing  off  into  the  glowing  morning  under  the 
curve  of  his  palm. 

His  gloom  lightened  only  momentarily  when  Aldrich 
appeared ;  his  air  of  anxious  expectation  settled  upon  him 
once  more. 

When  the  officer  asked  him  for  news  of  Pere  Leclair 
he  walked  away  to  the  end  of  the  porch.  He  returned 
presently  and  spread  out  his  gaunt  hands;  they  were 
speckled  with  age,  and  the  thin  flesh  was  stretched  over 
the  bones  as  cloth  is  stretched  upon  an  umbrella's 
ribs. 

"I  have  been  indexing  and  codifying  old  age,  as  I  have 
walked  here,  my  boy;  I  have  been  preparing  a  digest  of 
the  human  nature  of  an  old  man.  An  old  man  hates  to 
quit  the  game  of  life.  If  he  has  had  power  he  doesn't 
want  to  give  it  up.  But  as  an  old  man's  hands  get  weal: 
he  tries  to  make  himself  believe  that  his  head  is  getting 
stronger.  An  old  man's  mind  takes  wider  flights,  for 
some  of  the  grosser  bonds  of  the  body  have  been  cast  off. 
So  an  old  man  fools  himself  by  thinking  that  he  is  getting 
wiser,  when  all  the  time  he  may  be  incubating  lunacy  in 
that  old  white-thatched  noddle.  An  old  man  is  devious, 
artful,  goes  the  long  way  about  to  get  at  a  thing,  for  he 
can  no  longer  leap  over  obstacles  and  climb  hills  of  diffi 
culty  as  he  could  when  he  was  a  young  man.  God  pity 
the  old  man  when  he  wakes  up  and  realizes  that  the  long 
way  about  in  the  race  of  life  is  the  loser's  way." 

He  set  his  back  wearily  against  one  of  the  porch  sup 
ports. 

"I  sent  Billedeau  away  with  those  petitions  to  the 

20  293 


THE    RED    LANE 

bishop.  I  wanted  the  bishop  to  see  one  of  these  fellows, 
one  who  was  fresh  out  of  the  bush — I  wanted  the  bishop 
to  realize  what  children  these  people  are,  and  I  figured 
that,  as  a  fair  and  a  keen  man,  he  would  tell  himself  that 
the  poor  folks  of  the  border  should  not  be  judged  by  the 
hard-and-fast  rules  he  may  apply  to  the  rest  of  his  parish. 
I  sent  a  psychological  instrument,  Aldrich !  An  old  man's 
devious  dodge  around  by  the  longest  way!  Not  a  word 
from  Billedeau!  Not  a  word  from  the  bishop!  No  sign 
of  Father  Leclair,  and  here  is  this  convention  hanging 
like  a  black  cloud  in  the  sky  to-day  ready  to  burst! 
I've  got  the  votes — I'm  sure  of  that.  But  the  other  side 
has  got  fists  and  ugliness  and  I'm  afraid  of  what  may 
happen." 

"So  am  I,  Mr.  Clifford,"  affirmed  the  young  man, 
soberly.  "That  crowd  down  in  the  village  there  is 
dusted  with  thugs  from  across  the  border.  They  show 
up  as  plainly  as  pepper  on  potatoes — mighty  black- 
looking  grains." 

"I  have  even  been  to  that  new  priest,  Father  Horrigan, 
Aldrich.  I  appealed  to  him  to  take  some  helpful  attitude 
in  this  matter  and  smooth  the  situation.  He  told  me 
that  he  had  been  sent  up  here  to  cut  this  parish  out  of 
politics.  He  may  be  right  from  his  standpoint,  but  this 
parish  isn't  like  any  other  parish.  It's  a  regular  Siamese- 
twins  situation  just  now.  The  whole  proposition  is  bound 
together  by  flesh  and  blood.  Time  and  skill  and  patience 
could  separate  the  elements  and  put  us  right.  But  this 
is  no  time  to  sink  the  knife  in.  It  means  blood,  my  boy 
— blood  and  no  cure!" 

The  officer's  face  was  grim  and  his  eyes  grew  hard. 

"You  told  me  a  few  weeks  ago  that  Blais  would  prob 
ably  sell  out  to  the  timber  interests.  I  believe  that  he 
has  done  so  already,  Mr.  Clifford.  I  got  some  pretty 

294 


THE  THREAT  OF  THE  HUNDRED 

straight  information  while  I  was  down  the  border.  He 
went  south  and  met  the  field  agent  of  the  syndicate." 

"He's  a  crook.  I  know  what  he'll  do  if  he  carries  that 
convention,"  the  patriarch  burst  out. 

"As  far  as  I'm  concerned  I  don't  propose  to  see  him 
carry  it,  sir." 

"I'm  afraid  you've  got  to  respect  your  job  and  take 
about  the  same  position  as  Father  Horrigan,  my  boy. 
This  is  politics — all  politics!" 

"It's  something  more,  sir.  The  thing  came  to  me  as  I 
was  crossing  the  fields  just  now.  One  of  the  leaders  in 
that  gang  back  there  is  Condon,  and  he  is  subject  to 
arrest  for  his  attack  on  me.  Every  one  of  those  plug- 
uglies,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  is  a  smuggler  with  the  goods 
on  him.  Do  you  understand?  Each  one  of  them  has  a 
bottle  of  Province  liquor  under  his  coat-tails.  I  am 
authorized  to  summon  and  swear  in  a  special  posse  of 
United  States  deputies  when  need  arises.  If  those  men 
interfere  with  that  convention  I'm  going  to  drop  on  'em 
with  my  men — and  I'll  have  plenty  of  able-bodied  chaps 
at  my  back.  And  the  United  States  government  will 
sanction  everything  we  do,  Mr.  Clifford." 

"I  haven't  any  right  to  win  out  by  asking  my  friends 
to  take  blows  for  my  sake,"  protested  the  representative. 

"The  people  of  this  district  have  the  right  to  insist 
that  you  stand  as  a  candidate  and  rescue  them  from  a 
rogue,"  stated  the  officer. 

He  went  on  passionately:  "I  have  decided  that  this  is 
no  time  to  be  squeamish.  I  can  justify  my  action  in 
case  inquiry  is  made.  It  is  time  to  show  the  renegades 
of  this  border  that  they  are  not  running  things.  I'm 
human — pretty  much  so.  I've  got  a  few  debts  to  pay — so 
have  other  honest  men  in  Attegat  who  have  been  abused 
in  the  past  by  these  fellows  from  across  the  line.  They 

295 


THE    RED    LANE 

are  over  here  in  our  dooryard,  and  they've  got  to  take  the 
consequences.  See  here,  Mr.  Clifford,  my  blood  has  been 
boiling  ever  since  I  stepped  out  of  the  tavern  this  morn 
ing  !  Man  after  man  of  that  gang  sneaked  up  to  me  and 
whispered  an  insult — a  dirty  slur  that  I  can't  understand. 
If  I  have  good  luck  before  night  I'll  make  those  fellows 
swallow  their  own  dose,  even  if  I  have  to  mix  their  teeth 
with  it." 

The  old  man  surveyed  this  sudden  fury  with  frank 
astonishment.  He  decided  that  his  own  political  affairs 
constituted  only  a  portion  of  the  controlling  animus  of 
that  day. 

"No,  I  don't  understand,"  continued  Aldrich.  "They 
asked  me  if  I  knew  where  Vetal  Beaulieu  was — where  I 
had  left  him — what  I  had  done  with  him!  It  was  said 
with  a  sneer.  Those  men  have  been  instigated  to  per 
secute  me.  It's  a  Dave  Roi  trick.  That's  plain." 

Clifford  hesitated  only  a  moment. 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  Roi's  silly  work.  Evange- 
line  Beaulieu  came  to  me  and  showed  me  an  anonymous 
letter  of  the  same  purport." 

The  officer  spat  an  oath  viciously.  Sensible  comment 
on  that  unspeakable  act  was  beyond  him. 

"Don't  let  the  thing  trouble  you,  my  boy.  Evangeline 
treated  the  contemptible  thing  properly — she  told  me 
it  would  be  an  insult  to  mention  the  letter  to  you." 

Aldrich's  soul  came  to  his  eyes  and  softened  them. 

"Beaulieu  must  be  at  home,"  suggested  the  patriarch. 

"No,  he  is  not  at  home.  His  place  has  been  closed 
for  several  weeks.  I  have  been  searching  for  him." 

"Then  he  is  hiding  for  a  purpose,  my  boy.  This  petty 
business  of  the  letter  and  the  curs  sneaking  up  to  you  in 
the  village  to-day  shows  their  hand.  Keep  your  temper, 
and  they'll  quit.  Yes,  Aldrich,  look  out  for  your  temper 

296 


THE  THREAT  OF  THE  HUNDRED 

to-day.  I  don't  like  the  sound  of  this  talk  about  a  posse. 
We're  in  the  right — and  I  hope  God  is  going  to  send  us 
another  kind  of  help." 

He  gazed  away  across  the  fields  once  more,  somberly, 
anxiously. 

Aldrich  did  not  comment. 

"I  will  see  you  in  the  village  before  the  convention 
opens,"  he  informed  the  patriarch.  "I'll  not  go  out 
hunting  for  trouble,  Mr.  Clifford.  I'll  try  to  guard  my 
temper." 

He  hurried  away. 

He  did  not  return  straight  to  the  village.  A  lane  al 
lowed  him  to  make  a  detour  toward  the  big  hill  on  the 
slope  of  which  was  Madame  Ouillette's  cottage.  He 
glanced  at  his  watch.  He  had  been  up  and  about  early 
that  morning;  it  was  not  yet  the  hour  at  which  the 
school  assembled  on  the  hilltop. 

He  found  Evangeline  behind  the  little  arbor  in  the 
madame's  garden;  she  was  arranging  her  bouquet  for 
the  master's  table. 

Aldrich  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her,  for  his  emo 
tions  were  tumultuous  at  that  moment;  tenderness  and 
sympathy  strove  with  the  passion  of  his  love.  His  affec 
tion  did  not  avail  to  avert  that  constant  persecution, 
and  this  thought  made  his  greeting  of  her  as  wistful  as  it 
was  joyous. 

He  did  not  profane  that  meeting  by  reference  to  the 
slander  of  the  letter.  Her  own  attitude  he  understood 
from  what  Representative  Clifford  had  said  regarding 
the  affair. 

"I  have  tried  again  to  find  your  father,  dear,"  he  told 
her.  "He  has  not  come  home.  I  will  try  again." 

"The  happy  thought  has  come  to  me  that  he  is  sorry," 
she  said,  gazing  up  at  him  trustfully.  "So  he  has  barred 

297 


THE    RED    LANE 

the  doors  of  the  wicked  place  and  has  gone  away  to  make 
himself  right  with  our  God.  He  will  come  back,  Nor 
man,  and  will  understand  us  better." 

They  could  look  down  through  the  trees  from  Madame 
Ouillette's  garden  and  see  the  moving  groups  in  the  long 
street  and  hear  the  dull  murmur  of  far-off  voices.  In  the 
distance,  along  the  highway  and  here  and  there  on  the 
branch  roads,  banners  of  dust  signaled  the  approach  of 
more  wagons. 

"It  is  the  day  of  the  great  convention  to  choose  our 
representative ;  I  am  sure  the  people  will  speak  again  for 
Monsieur  Clifford,"  she  said,  after  they  had  looked  down 
in  silence  for  a  time.  "We  have  been  talking  much  of 
this  day  at  the  school.  Master  Donham  says  that  we 
are  to  lead  the  children  down  the  hill,  and  they  will  sing 
their  songs  to  the  voters  and  cheer  for  the  good  man 
who  has  brought  the  school  to  Attegat." 

"No,  the  children  must  not  come  down  the  hill  to 
day,"  he  protested,  his  face  paling.  "Take  that  word  to 
the  master,  Evangeline.  Make  it  a  very  emphatic  word. 
If  you  do  not  think  he  will  accept  that  message  through 
you,  I  must  go  myself.  The  children  must  not  come  to 
the  village.  And,  above  all,  do  not  come  yourself — do 
not  allow  any  of  the  teachers  to  come." 

She  stared  at  him  in  surprise,  for  he  was  earnest  to 
the  point  of  appeal.  He  had  suddenly  become  somber 
and  formal,  and  the  tenderness  had  gone  out  of  his  eyes. 

"But  we  can  do  much,  so  Master  Donham  believes. 
The  hearts  of  the  people  have  been  softened.  They  are 
sad  because  P£re  Leclair  has  been  sent  away.  They  will 
rally  now  for  Representative  Clifford,  for  he  has  always 
been  the  good  friend  of  the  father." 

"I  insist!  The  children  must  not  come.  This  is  not 
a  whim,  dear.  I  cannot  tell  you  all  just  now.  There — 

298 


THE  THREAT  OF  THE  HUNDRED 

there — will  be  danger.  It  is  politics,"  he  went  on,  lamely, 
for  her  grave  eyes  were  upraised  and  were  searching  his 
soul. 

"And  you  will  be  there?"  she  asked. 

"I  must  be  there.     I  have  business  there." 

"What  is  the  danger?" 

He  replied  with  constraint  in  voice  and  demeanor. 

"I  cannot  explain  to  you  now,  Evangeline.  I  should 
not  have  said  so  much !  But  I  wanted  to  make  you  under 
stand  that  on  no  account  are  the  children  or  the  teachers 
to  venture  into  the  village  this  day.  Come!  I  will 
walk  to  the  top  of  the  hill  with  you.  I  think  I'd  better 
say  the  word  to  Master  Donham  so  that  he  may  under 
stand." 

He  took  her  bouquet  from  her  and  followed  her  through 
the  gate.  As  she  walked  beside  him  she  studied  his 
grave  face  with  anxious  intentness. 

"There  will  be  danger — and  you  will  be  there?"  she 
repeated,  at  last. 

"I  have  duties  that  take  me  there,  Evangeline." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  danger  if  I  am  with  you,  whom  I 
love.  I  was  not  afraid  on  that  night  when  you  came  to 
save  me." 

"You  are  the  bravest  woman  I  have  ever  known;  but 
you  must  remain  on  the  hill  to-day." 

His  tone  was  imperative — it  did  not  reveal  his  pas 
sionate  desire  to  fold  her  in  his  arms.  He  turned  his 
eyes  away  from  hers,  doubting  his  self-control. 

When  they  arrived  on  the  hilltop  he  drew  the  master 
into  a  tent,  explained  the  situation  tersely,  and  enjoined 
secrecy. 

"I  fear  it  will  be  a  high  price  that  we  pay  for  the  true 
good  of  Acadia,"  commented  the  schoolmaster,  dolefully. 

The  officer  did  not  trust  himself  to  go  to  Evangeline 
299 


THE    RED    LANE 

when  he  left  the  tent.  He  waved  his  hand  to  her  and 
tried  to  smile  comfortingly.  But  he  realized  that  the 
smile  was  a  miserable  failure,  for  her  sincere  gaze  had 
wrested  from  him  whom  she  loved  an  answer  to  her  fore 
bodings;  he  had  told  her  mutely  that  bitter  trouble  lay 
ahead  of  Attegat  that  day. 


XXIII 


ATTEGAT  IN  BATTLE  ARRAY 

HEN  Norman  Aldrich  came  into  the  vil 
lage  square  he  found  a  situation  which 
confirmed  his  fears. 

No  longer  were  the  alien  bullies  scat 
tered  in  the  throngs  which  had  flowed 
slowly  along  the  street,  eddying  into 
groups  and  knots.  The  strangers  had  massed  by  them 
selves  in  front  of  Attegat's  little  town-house.  Hulking 
fellows  were  crowded  on  the  steps  of  the  building ;  broad 
shoulders  barred  the  narrow  doorway.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  intent  or  the  determination  of  that  gath 
ering. 

Hovering  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  dismay,  doubt, 
and  disgust  wrinkling  his  sallow  face,  Notary  Pierre  Gen- 
dreau  tiptoed  nervously.  He  peered  into  the  faces  of 
these  strange  men;  he  made  half-hearted  attempts  to 
penetrate  the  throng;  he  walked  to  and  fro,  twisting  his 
hands  and  cracking  his  knuckles. 

He  hurried  to  Aldrich  when  the  young  man  appeared. 
"These  are  not  lawful  voters  of  Attegat,  Monsieur. 
They  have  come  from  across  the  border.  They  obstruct 
my  way.  I  am  to  be  chairman  of  the  meeting.  They 
show  no  respect.  They  block  the  door.  I  have  been 
chairman  of  many  meetings,  but  I  have  never  seen  such 
disregard  of  the  rights  of  others." 

"You  had  better  walk  along  with  me,  Notary  Gen- 
301. 


THE    RED    LANE 

dreau,"  advised  the  officer.     "The  convention  cannot  be 
called  together  just  now." 

Aldrich  glanced  up  at  the  window  of  Blais's  office.  He 
saw  David  Roi,  obvious  and  insolent  captain  of  these 
rogues,  commanding  from  this  vantage-point.  Aldrich 
was  sure  that  cowardice  had  more  to  do  with  this  isolation 
than  a  captain's  tactics. 

The  old  notary  followed  the  young  man  out  of  the 
crowds.  Men  plucked  at  the  notary's  sleeve  and  asked 
anxious  questions,  but  he  shook  his  head  and  plodded  on. 
He  did  not  know  how  to  advise  the  voters  in  this  amazing 
crisis.  Men  ranged  themselves  in  the  square  in  long  lines 
and  stared  sullenly  at  these  interlopers  who  usurped  the 
rights  of  citizens.  Without  wholly  realizing  what  they 
were  doing,  the  men  of  the  crowds  were  separating  into 
the  factions  which  the  passions  of  that  day  had  formed. 
There  were  three  elements.  The  bullies  had  already 
flocked  and  had  taken  their  position.  The  malcontents 
of  the  river-valley — the  evicted  squatters  and  those  who 
sympathized — drew  out  from  the  press  of  other  men.  The 
law-abiding  voters,  the  friends  of  Clifford,  the  loyal  and 
remorseful  parishioners  of  Pe're  Leclair,  gazed  wonderingly 
and  apprehensively,  realizing  that  they  were  in  the  pres 
ence  of  foes.  Many  followed  the  officer  and  the  notary, 
for  these  were  known  to  be  supporters  of  Representative 
Clifford;  the  voters  wanted  to  understand  what  this  sin 
ister  preparation  meant  and  what  was  expected  of  them. 

Therefore  it  happened  that  Aldrich  was  leading  quite 
a  little  army  of  anxious  citizens  when  he  met  Clifford  at 
the  edge  of  the  village.  He  had  walked  in  that  direction 
for  the  purpose  of  intercepting  the  representative. 

"  It  is  as  bad  as  it  can  be,  sir.  Roi  has  at  least  a  hun 
dred  of  his  renegades  in  the  village,  and  they  have  blocked 
the  door  of  the  town-house." 

302 


"Mauvais  sujet!"  muttered  the  notary  to  the  men  who 
flanked  him.  "But  shall  the  word  go  out  that  we  al 
lowed  that  canaille  to  come  here  across  the  border  and 
run  our  convention?  No,  I  think  French  blood  will  not 
endure  that!" 

"Representative  Clifford,  they  don't  intend  to  allow 
enough  of  our  voters  to  get  to  the  ballot-box  to-day  to 
carry  this  thing  for  you." 

"Let  them  go  ahead  and  nominate  Blais.  I'll  protest 
his  nomination;  I'll  expose  this  infamy;  I'll  keep  him 
out  of  the  legislature,"  declared  the  old  man.  "I  have 
been  thinking  the  matter  over,  my  boy.  If  we  stay  on 
the  side  of  the  law  we  can  invoke  the  law." 

"Let  me  tell  you  this,  Mr.  Clifford,"  said  the  officer, 
leading  the  representative  out  of  earshot  of  the  goggling 
bystanders.  "I  thoroughly  believe  that  Blais  is  working 
for  the  timber-land  owners  and  has  their  influence  behind 
him.  And  in  that  case  we  will  be  fighting  men  in  the 
law  who  have  plenty  of  money  to  buy  lawyers  and  wit 
nesses.  If  Blais  is  nominated  at  this  convention  he'll 
have  all  the  nine  points  of  possession.  Don't  think  I'm 
too  hot-headed  in  this  matter.  I  don't  relish  quarrels. 
But  I  believe  this  is  a  case  where  might  is  justified  in 
making  the  right." 

The  representative  rubbed  his  nose  reflectively. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  two-thirds  right  about  what  the 
law  can  do  to  us  in  court,  Aldrich,"  he  admitted.  "If 
we  make  no  effort  to  carry  the  convention  they've  got  a 
better  story  than  we  have,  for  there  cannot  be  testimony 
then  as  to  violence.  We  can  only  tell  about  loafers  at 
the  polling  place.  If  we  make  an  honest  effort  to  carry 
the  convention,  then  there'll  be  a  devil  of  a  row.  I've 
got  a  good  mind  to  go  and  climb  one  of  these  trees  and 
pull  it  up  after  me,"  he  added,  disgustedly. 

303 


THE    RED    LANE 

"Wait  and  let  me  climb  something  that's  more  to  the 
point,"  said  Aldrich.  "The  nub  of  all  this  trouble  is  up 
there  in  Blais's  office,  sir.  We  may  as  well  have  an  under 
standing  with  those  knaves  before  we  start  in.  So  I  pro 
pose  to  climb  those  stairs  and  let  them  know  what  to 
expect  unless  they  keep  their  hands  off  to-day." 

He  walked  away  alone.  The  representative,  the  notary, 
and  the  huddled  group  of  their  supporters  stared  after  him. 

"I  don't  know  which  is  best,  Notary  Pierre — the  young 
man's  'I  will!'  or  the  old  man's  'I  wait.'  It's  a  pretty 
old  question,  and  this  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  very  good 
day  for  debating  it." 

"I  think  it's  a  good  day  for  Attegat  to  show  that  she 
can  run  her  own  legislative  convention.  I  have  been 
chairman  many  years,  and  she  has  always  run  her  affairs 
well  and  honestly,"  declared  Gendreau,  beating  a  thin 
hand  on  the  breast  of  his  shiny  frock-coat.  The  passion 
of  troublous  times,  of  offended  dignity,  of  civic  pride, 
glowed  in  his  deep  eyes.  "I  am  not  a  young  man  any 
longer.  But  I  wish  I  were." 

The  officer  walked  across  the  square,  straight  toward 
the  office,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  window  in  a  fashion 
that  left  no  doubt  as  to  his  intentions.  He  met  the  gaze 
of  Roi  and  saw  the  smuggler  brandish  his  hand  in  a  sud 
den  signal. 

While  he  was  mounting  the  stairs  he  heard  the  thud  of 
running  feet  in  the  square  behind  him,  and  turned  at  the 
sound  of  clatter  of  boots  on  the  stairway  treads.  Several 
of  the  alien  bullies  were  following  him.  The  significance 
of  Roi's  motion  was  revealed.  The  coward  was  summon 
ing  a  body-guard. 

The  men  were  at  his  heels  when  Aldrich  went  into  the 
office.  He  did  not  stop  to  argue  or  protest.  He  had 
neither  time  nor  words  to  waste. 

304 


ATTEGAT  IN  BATTLE  ARRAY 

Blais  stood  near  the  door,  and  his  countenance  dis 
played  varying  emotions:  uneasiness  predominated,  and 
sullen  hatred  was  there.  But  Blais  was  no  longer  the 
self-assertive  blade  who  had  shouted  inflammatory  senti 
ments  of  race  from  his  window  over  the  gilded  sign. 
Consciousness  of  his  guilt  as  would-be  betrayer  of  his 
people  made  him  shrink  before  this  stalwart  and  keen- 
eyed  young  man  who  was  in  the  way  of  knowing  more 
of  the  secrets  of  the  Yankee  timber-land  folk  than  the 
simple  habitants  of  the  border  could  gather.  It  seemed 
to  the  attorney  that  the  visitor  threatened  and  accused 
him  by  the  stare  he  delivered  as  he  swung  in  through  the 
doorway.  Blais  glanced  past  Aldrich  and  blinked  his 
relief  at  sight  of  the  border  swaggerers  who  came  jostling 
in. 

"You  have  some  business  this  day  with  me,  eh,  Mon 
sieur?"  he  asked,  his  perturbation  making  him  forget  the 
stilted  English  he  assumed  on  occasions. 

"I  have,  Attorney  Blais." 

"  I  do  not  do  business  to-day.  I  have  no  time  to  attend 
to  the  law  to-day.  I  am  a  candidate.  This  is  conven 
tion  day." 

"That  is  my  business  with  you,  sir." 

Roi  advanced  from  his  post  at  the  window.  His  men 
were  at  hand.  He  had  a  bully's  courage  when  he  was 
backed  by  numbers.  He  saw  that  Blais  was  confused 
and  had  lost  countenance. 

"It  will  be  time  for  you  to  make  the  politics  of  this 
district  your  business  when  you  get  to  be  a  voter  here, 
Mister  Customs  Man,"  he  sneered. 

"The  remark  fits  your  own  case  exactly,  Roi.  I  hand 
it  back  to  you.  And  here  is  the  way  you're  making 
politics  here  your  business."  He  shook  his  fist  at  the 
men  behind  him. 

305 


THE    RED    LANE 

"But  I  have  the  right  to  come  into  this  office — I  am 
the  friend  of  Louis  Blais." 

"Tm  here  to  show  him  that  I'm  a  better  friend  than 
you  are,  Roi.  You  propose  to  help  him  commit  a  crime. 
You  have  advised  him  to  do  so.  Blais,  don't  you  know 
enough  about  law  to  understand  what  it  will  mean  to 
you  if  you  let  those  scalawags  out  there  block  that  con 
vention?" 

The  candidate  muttered  and  walked  to  and  fro. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  let  the  legal  voters  walk  to  the 
ballot-box?" 

Blais  took  refuge  in  anger. 

"Let  me  tell  you  something  you  know  already,  Mr. 
Officer.  How  have  the  conventions  been  run  in  Attegat 
all  these  years?  Ah,  you  know!  A  little  clique  has  run 
them.  Old  Gendreau  is  always  chairman.  It  is  always 
all  tied  up  for  old  white-bearded  Clifford.  Those  who 
don't  vote  for  Clifford  are  thrown  out;  they  are  called 
men  who  belong  to  another  political  party.  They  are 
told  they  cannot  caucus  with  the  other  citizens.  That's 
the  way  it  has  been  run.  It  is  time  to  have  a  change — 
yes,  it  is  time  to  let  men  vote." 

"It  has  been  done  in  Attegat  as  it  has  been  done  in  all 
other  parts  of  the  State,  Blais.  You  know  well  that  it 
is  not  right  for  men  of  other  parties  to  come  to  a  party 
caucus  and  vote.  It  has  been  much  more  liberal  here 
than  elsewhere,  for  nearly  all  the  voters  have  been  for 
Representative  Clifford.  You  are  not  sincere  when  you 
talk  that  way.  I  am  no  child.  Use  man's  talk  when  you 
talk  to  me." 

"My  friends  will  only  see  to  it  that  I  have  a  show 
against  the  ring  that  has  run  everything  for  so  long," 
insisted  the  candidate. 

Roi  indorsed  that  statement  with  an  oath. 
306 


ATTEGAT  IN  BATTLE  ARRAY 

"I  have  come  up  here  to  talk  sense,  Blais,  not  to 
quarrel  and  call  names.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  look 
out  of  your  window.  The  sight  speaks  for  itself.  A  gang 
of  strangers  have  taken  possession  of  the  town-house  and 
are  blocking  the  way  to  the  convention.  Aren't  you 
willing  to  leave  this  to  the  ballots — to  the  voters?" 

"I  have  been  lied  about — I  have  been  abused  behind 
my  back.  The  voters  were  with  me.  They  have  been 
taken  away  by  sneak  tricks,  by  using  Pere  Leclair.  I 
was  fighting  fair.  When  the  other  side  stops  fighting 
fair  I  turn  and  I  fight  any  way  to  win,"  confessed  the 
attorney,  vehemently. 

"That's  your  code,  is  it?  Then  I  want  to  warn  you, 
Blais,  that  you  can't  expect  the  other  side  will  take  any 
higher  ground.  The  show-down  will  come  after  it  is  all 
over.  You'll  have  to  admit  that  you  tried  to  carry  off 
this  convention  by  force.  The  right  side  can  prove  that 
they  merely  resisted  that  force.  The  law  will  back 
Representative  Clifford.  You  will  be  exposed;  and 
here's  what  I've  come  to  warn  you  about:  you  will  also 
expose  some  big  men  who  will  turn  on  you  and  disown 
you  and  use  all  their  influence  to  ruin  and  disgrace  you 
so  that  they  can  clear  their  own  skirts  in  this  affair.  I 
know  the  men;  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about." 

Aldrich  had  resolved  to  put  his  suspicions  to  the  test. 
He  wanted  to  reassure  himself  in  his  own  position  in  this 
crisis,  if  possible.  He  attacked  the  subject  boldly  in 
order  to  jump  Blais,  if  he  were  able,  in  order  to  find  out 
from  the  rogue's  demeanor  just  how  far  in  turpitude  the 
attorney  had  gone. 

Blais  was  no  master  of  guile;  guilt  was  in  his  soul,  and 
the  consciousness  of  his  betrayal  of  his  race  and  of  his 
league  with  Roi  had  already  unnerved  all  the  fibers  of 
his  being  that  day.  He  had  even  shrunk  from  the  win- 

307 


THE    RED    LANE 

dow  from  which  he  had  declaimed  so  brazenly  in  the 
past.  With  pale  face,  shuttling  eyes,  cowed  demeanor, 
he  backed  away  from  Aldrich. 

The  officer  followed  his  first  advantage  boldly. 

"The  timber-land  owners  gave  you  money  for  buying 
votes,  not  for  bullying  voters!  They  won't  stand  for 
you  making  a  scandal  out  of  this  thing,  my  man.  They'll 
turn  to  and  beat  out  your  political  brains.  I  say,  I  know 
the  men  and  the  way  they  operate  when  a  fool  puts  them 
in  wrong." 

He  had  mastered  his  man.  That  blunt  attack  had  made 
Blais  remember  what  he  had  been  trying  to  forget  in  his 
thirst  for  personal  advancement,  in  his  pursuit  of  the 
office  he  coveted  so  intensely:  his  employers  had  made 
secrecy  the  basis  of  their  contract  with  him.  In  his 
folly,  in  his  insane  desire  to  win  and  deliver  that  which 
he  had  sold,  he  had  taken  Roi  into  his  confidence.  Now 
his  secret  seemed  to  be  opened  to  the  world.  He  put  up 
his  hands.  In  another  moment  he  would  have  been 
groveling  in  surrender. 

But  Roi  thrust  him  back  into  a  corner,  growling  furious 
oaths  in  his  ear. 

Then  the  smuggler  whirled  on  Aldrich. 

"You'll  answer  for  that  lie  in  court.  You've  been 
talking  about  law!  You'll  get  what  you  want.  You 
heard  what  he  said  about  my  friend,  men?  Remember 
it — remember  every  word.  You'll  be  called  on  to  tell  it 
in  court.  Your  man  is  licked  at  the  polls — you  know  he 
is  licked,  you  customs  sneak!  So  now  you  want  to  pull 
down  a  good  man  by  slandering  him,  by  threats  to  lie 
about  him.  But,  by  the  gods,  I'm  here  to  see  that  he 
gets  a  square  deal!"  He  pounded  his  fists  on  his  breast. 

"I  see  you're  here,"  stated  the  officer.  "And  you're 
on  dangerous  ground.  The  United  States  wants  you." 

308 


ATTEGAT    IN    BATTLE    ARRAY 

He  stepped  forward  so  suddenly  that  the  smuggler  had 
no  time  to  dodge.  He  tapped  Roi  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 
"I  arrest  you  in  the  name  of  the  United  States." 

For  a  pregnant  instant  Roi  stared  at  the  officer,  looked 
beyond  him  in  startled  fashion  to  discover  whether  plot 
or  ambush  or  reserves  justified  this  bold  declaration,  and 
then,  when  he  realized  that  Aldrich  was  alone  and  that 
half  a  dozen  brawny  thugs  formed  his  own  body-guard,  he 
laughed. 

"Arrest  hell!"  he  jeered. 

"I  am  detaining  you  for  the  United  States  marshals, 
according  to  the  law,  Roi,"  said  Aldrich.  "I  have  taken 
you  on  my  side  of  the  border." 

"Well,  what's  the  rest  of  it?"  asked  the  chief  of  the 
border  gang,  winking  at  his  men. 

"The  rest  of  it  is  that  if,  after  your  arrest,  you  resist 
and  try  to  escape  you'll  get  what  I'm  justified  in  giving 
you.  Just  understand  that  you're  a  prisoner." 

"A  prisoner—me?"  Again  he  pounded  his  breast. 
"Why,  you  damnation  dude,  you!  you'd  have  to  have  an 
army  of  your  customs  sneaks  to  arrest  me  to-day!  I've 
got  a  hundred  men  here  in  this  village — and  there  are 
some  fair  samples  of  the  lot  behind  you  there.  Arrest 
me,  eh?"  He  bawled  his  laughter  more  loudly  as  his 
assurance  returned.  "Did  you  see  that  terrible  blow  the 
dude  gave  me  just  now,  fellows?  Right  on  the  shoulder 
as  hard  as  he  could  strike!  Isn't  he  the  dreadful  savage 
man,  what?  Better  try  to  put  me  in  my  little  cell,  Mr. 
Officer,  and  then  you'll  find  out  what  will  happen  to 
you." 

But  Roi's  face  flushed  when  Aldrich  kept  his  eyes 
steady  and  hard,  and  his  irony  was  plainly  forced. 

"I  repeat,  Roi,  that  you  are  a  prisoner.  Will  you 
come  along  quietly?" 

21  309 


THE    RED    LANE 

r- 

Had  this  been  some  other  man  Roi  might  have  struck 
him  blindly  and  insanely  in  his  vicious  rage.  His  features 
expressed  passion  sufficient  to  inspire  the  act.  But  the 
memory  of  the  blow  the  officer's  fist  had  dealt  him 
once  dominated  him  in  his  rage ;  and,  though  his  men  were 
at  hand,  he  merely  clacked  his  fists  before  his  face  and 
eased  his  feelings  with  oaths. 

Aldrich  held  himself  in  check  and  on  his  dignity  as  an 
officer.  He  had  come  up  into  that  room,  into  the  pres 
ence  of  his  foes,  for  a  purpose.  There  would  be  a  story 
to  tell  of  that  day — he  was  sure  of  that,  for  his  mind  was 
made  up  and  he  had  resolved  he  would  meet  the  issue  of 
the  day  as  he  found  it.  As  an  officer  he  would  need  justi 
fication.  Now  he  was  laying  the  basis  of  that  justifica 
tion.  In  the  past  David  Roi  had  been  careful  how  he 
ventured  across  the  border;  he  had  come  by  stealth.  He 
was  an  indicted  smuggler  for  whom  the  marshals  had  been 
waiting  with  that  patience  which  characterizes  the  gov 
ernment  pursuit  of  offenders. 

Aldrich  still  hoped  that  pitched  battle  might  be  avoided, 
even  though  that  drastic  alternative  seemed  better  than 
surrender  to  the  evil  forces  that  would  ruin  progress,  sap 
energy  in  the  district,  and  destroy  the  hope  that  wise 
reorganization  was  about  to  prevail  in  the  affairs  of  the 
people.  He  understood  that  he  had  taken  most  of  the 
fight  out  of  Blais.  The  attorney  stood  in  the  corner, 
hands  rammed  deeply  into  his  trousers  pockets,  and  was 
looking  at  Roi  as  one  would  regard  a  dangerous  bomb 
which  he  feared  to  touch  himself,  but  which  he  would  like 
to  see  tossed  over  the  rail. 

"If  you  don't  come  quietly,  Roi,"  Aldrich  said,  after 
waiting  a  few  moments  in  ominous  silence,  "you  must 
take  the  consequences." 

"What  consequences?" 

310 


ATTEGAT  IN  BATTLE  ARRAY 

"What  the  law  of  the  United  States  allows!"  cried  the 
customs  man,  sternly.  "This  is  no  brawl,  Roi.  I'm  an 
officer.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  can  take  you  with 
my  two  hands  and  drag  you  out  of  this  room  past  those 
men  of  yours.  This  is  not  a  time  for  cheap  threats  or 
arguments.  I  simply  tell  you  that  I  have  made  you  a 
prisoner — and  the  United  States  government  has  given 
an  officer  plenty  of  law  for  his  use  and  protection."  He 
did  not  intend  to  be  too  specific  with  this  rogue ;  he  noted 
that  his  self-restraint  and  his  vagueness  were  already 
having  their  effect.  Lower  natures  are  intimidated  more 
easily  by  what  they  do  not  fully  understand. 

"Come  along!"  commanded  the  officer. 

"Not  on  your  life!"  blazed  the  smuggler.  He  had 
dropped  his  air  of  bragging  banter.  His  coward's  soul 
was  restless  under  the  stare  of  those  hard,  gray  eyes. 

"Very  well!  I  have  given  you  your  chance."  He 
turned  away  and  walked  to  the  cowering  Blais.  "I'll 
advise  you  to  step  to  that  window  and  tell  the  voters 
that  you  are  not  a  candidate,  sir.  It  will  ease  you  out 
of  a  bad  scrape.  Don't  let  a  scalawag,  a  prisoner  of  the 
United  States  government,  advise  you  to  your  own  hurt. 
If  you  haven't  spoken  to  the  people  and  withdrawn  your 
name  within  ten  minutes,  I  shall  consider  that  you  intend 
to  let  matters  take  their  course.  That's  all!" 

He  determined  not  to  prolong  the  interview.  He  felt 
that  he  had  said  just  enough.  He  threw  back  his  shoul 
ders  and  walked  toward  the  door. 

The  men  allowed  him  to  pass. 

When  he  strode  across  the  square  and  took  his  way 
back  to  where  his  friends  were  waiting,  most  of  the  voters 
who  had  split  from  the  avowed  rebels  of  the  district  hur 
ried  after  him.  Curiosity  to  know  what  had  been  hap 
pening  up  in  Blais's  office  drove  them  at  his  heels.  They 


THE    RED    LANE 

came  crowding  around  when  he  joined  Clifford  and  the 
notary,  adding  themselves  to  the  group  already  there, 
pressing  closely  as  men  entitled  to  know  what  their  leaders 
had  accomplished,  forming  a  mass  which  hedged  the  three 
principals  on  all  sides. 

Aldrich  had  decided  to  deal  as  openly  with  these  simple 
men  of  Clifford's  party  as  prudence  justified.  He  raised 
his  voice  so  that  all  might  hear. 

"I  have  been  talking  to  Louis  Blais,  Mr.  Clifford.  I 
have  been  telling  him  some  truths  about  himself  and  his 
position,  and  I  think  he  appreciated  those  truths.  I  hope 
he  is  going  to  come  to  his  window  shortly  and  announce 
to  the  voters  that  he  withdraws  his  name.  I  feel  that  we 
are  all  fair  men  on  this  side,"  he  went  on,  meeting  the 
gaze  of  the  group  frankly.  "I  told  him  we  would  wait 
patiently  for  ten  minutes." 

The  patriarch  did  not  ask  questions.  He  squint 
ed  shrewdly  at  the  officer  and  resigned  himself  to 
wait. 

So  they  stood,  their  eyes  on  the  window  above  the  new 
gilt  sign. 

Silence  held  them.  They  heard  the  dull  rumble  of  the 
voices  of  the  bullies  who  still  thronged  in  the  doorway 
of  the  town-house.  Occasionally  the  sunlight  glinted  on 
the  glass  of  a  bottle  which  was  tipped  to  a  drinker's  lips. 
Occasionally  a  noisy  laugh  rattled  out  over  the  monotone 
of  many  voices.  The  horses  in  the  square  clumped  down 
their  shaggy  hoofs,  dislodging  flies.  The  doves  rustled 
and  fluttered  and  cooed  gratefully,  picking  up  grain  that 
dropped  from  the  tossed  nose-bags. 

Aldrich  drew  out  his  watch.  Resolve  had  deepened 
into  bitterness,  and  he  determined  that  action  should 
succeed  the  threats  he  had  made.  The  thought  came  to 
him  that  he  would  be  placing  his  own  reputation  as  an 

312 


ATTEGAT  IN  BATTLE  ARRAY 

efficient  officer  in  jeopardy  if  he  allowed  Roi  to  perpetrate 
the  lawlessness  he  proposed. 

Then  Blais  came  suddenly  to  the  window  and  thrust 
out  his  head.  His  time  of  grace  was  not  up. 

He  shouted  and  waved  his  hands,  calling  attention  to 
himself.  From  his  impetuous  haste,  his  excited  de 
meanor,  the  shrill  tones  of  his  voice,  the  officer  drew  quick 
and  discouraging  augury :  Blais  had  been  nerved  again  to 
contest;  his  was  not  the  air  of  a  man  who  intended  to 
acknowledge  failure. 

"Listen,  one  and  all!"  he  screamed.  "Slanderers  have 
threatened  me.  But  I  shall  not  be  bulldozed,  fellow  Aca- 
dians.  I  stand  for  you.  You  must  stand  for  me.  Believe 
no  lies.  I  am  a  candidate.  I  shall  stay  a  candidate!" 

The  men  at  the  door  of  the  town-house  cheered  lustily ; 
the  voice  of  Condon  hoarsely  proposed  a  health ;  and  the 
bottles  were  waved  in  the  air. 

For  a  few  moments  Aldrich  remained,  watch  in  his  hand, 
his  gaze  traveling  from  the  window  to  the  massed  forces 
of  the  enemy.  He  saw  David  Roi  come  down  the  stairs 
from  the  office,  his  men  at  his  heels.  The  smuggler  strode 
across  the  square  and  thrust  himself  into  the  heart  of  the 
press  of  his  little  army.  For  Aldrich  that  act  stood  as 
open  and  insolent  challenge,  manifest  intent  to  barricade 
himself,  as  a  prisoner  of  the  government,  behind  the  bodies 
of  his  lawless  followers. 

"That  settles  it,  Mr.  Clifford,"  he  said,  and  he  snapped 
his  watch-case. 

"Honest  men  of  Attegat,"  he  cried,  addressing  those 
who  surrounded  him,  "that  man,  David  Roi,  is  a  smuggler 
whom  I  have  just  arrested  in  the  name  of  the  United 
States.  He  is  defying  high  authority.  You  are  citizens 
of  the  United  States.  I  call  on  you  to  do  your  duty. 
Raise  your  right  hands." 


THE    RED    LANE 

The  hands  came  up,  though  wonderment  was  on  thek 
faces. 

He  swore  them  solemnly  as  special  officers. 

"Get  weapons  where  you  can — clubs,  pitchforks,  any 
thing,"  he  told  his  new  posse.  "The  law  is  with  you. 
Do  not  be  afraid." 

"But  wait  one  moment,  Aldrich,"  began  the  patriarch. 

"I  cannot  listen,  now,"  retorted  the  officer,  curtly. 
"I  must  warn  you,  sir,  that  I  shall  resent  anything  which 
seems  like  interference  with  officers  making  an  arrest." 

He  turned  away  from  the  appealing  gaze  of  the  two  old 
men. 

"I  assume  all  responsibility — I  am  inside  the  law." 

Representative  Clifford,  his  features  working  with 
emotion,  stared  toward  the  south  under  the  curve  of  his 
hand.  He  was  like  a  prophet  who  had  predicted,  had 
hoped,  had  prayed,  and  at  last  had  suddenly  been  told 
that  hopes  and  prayers  and  earnest  faith  in  that  time  of 
deep  trouble  were  foolish  and  futile. 

"My  God,"  he  muttered,  "this  is  a  time  that  needs 
something  besides  fists  and  clubs.  It  need*  a  soul  from 
old  Acadia.  But  P£re  Leclair  isn't  here!" 


XXIV 

THE  JOAN   OF   ATTEGAT 

HE  sun  smiled  comfortingly  on  the  little 
activities  of  the  hilltop;  the  summer 
breeze  caressed  the  waving  grasses  there 
and  thrust  unseen  fingers  in  and  out  of 
the  tresses  of  the  maples  and  the  beeches. 
Most  of  the  teachers  and  the  children 
were  under  the  trees.  The  few  tents  were  used  for  the 
housing  of  the  tools  of  trades.  Master  Donham  had 
gathered  meager  equipment  by  appeals  to  his  friends 
"outside,"  while  he  was  waiting  for  the  fateful  session 
of  another  legislature,  hoping  that  those  in  the  State's 
high  stations  would  once  more  incline  to  the  needs  of 
Attegat,  gathering  his  proofs  and  his  arguments  to  lay 
before  the  men  who  should  question  Attegat's  respon 
sibility  and  gratitude. 

Evangeline  Beaulieu  led  her  flock  to  a  tree  at  the  brow 
of  the  hill  nearest  to  the  village.  She  tried  to  resign  her 
self  to  the  duty  that  awaited  her  there ;  she  tried  to  make 
herself  feel  that  her  lover  had  spoken  wisdom  to  her, 
that  his  urgent  commands  should  be  obeyed.  She  knelt 
beside  her  little  maids  and  steadied  the  stubby  fingers 
that  toiled  with  needle  or  wrought  with  pencil.  But  her 
eyes  wandered  from  the  tasks,  and  her  ears  were  listening 
for  sounds  from  the  village. 

When  childish  treble  piped  eager  trials  at  Yankee 
speech,  she  heard  ever  and  ever  that  dull  rumble  of 


THE    RED    LANE 

men's  voices,  and  the  growling  monotone  suggested  some 
beast  who  lurked  below  there,  under  the  trees,  waiting 
to  leap  and  rend. 

She  pondered  anxiously  on  what  Aldrich  had  said. 

He  had  told  her  there  would  be  danger.  His  eyes,  his 
air  had  spoken  to  her  as  sincerely  as  his  voice.  He  had 
meant  that  there  would  be  conflict,  clash  of  man  against 
man,  and  defeat — defeat  for  one  side;  that  must  happen. 
Which  side  was  threatened?  She  wished  she  had  heard 
more  news  from  the  village  that  day!  She  had  asked 
many  questions  during  the  past  days;  she  understood 
the  principles  at  issue.  She  knew  what  Representative 
Clifford  stood  for  in  the  affairs  of  Attegat,  in  the  hopes 
for  the  school,  in  the  promise  of  better  things  for  the  poor 
people  of  Acadia  when  the  great  men  should  hear  all  the 
truth  at  last.  All  those  matters  were  very  near  her  heart. 

But  nearer  than  all  others  was  that  stalwart  young 
man  who  had  just  gone  away  from  her,  trying  to  look 
confident  and  care-free,  and  failing. 

In  her  distraction,  her  fears,  her  boding  sense  of  evil, 
that  knowledge  thrilled  her  soul  as  she  sat  there  in  the 
little  flock  of  peaceful  children  and  barkened  for  those 
grim  sounds  from  the  crowded  streets  of  Attegat. 

One  chorus  of  hoarse  shouts  snapped  short  the  half- 
attention  she  had  been  giving  to  the  stubby  fingers,  the 
childish  treble. 

She  was  on  her  knees  among  the  pupils;  the  poor  lit 
tle  school  under  the  trees  had  not  the  luxury  of  chairs. 
Still  kneeling,  she  looked  up  at  the  sky,  her  face  white, 
her  lips  apart,  straining  her  attention,  listening,  fearing 
more  acutely. 

If  Anaxagoras  Billedeau  had  been  there  to  gaze  into 
those  upraised  eyes  he  would  have  remembered  what  he 
had  said — for  Billedeau  remembered  always  when  he  saw 


THE   JOAN   OF    ATTEGAT 

the  soul  of  old  Atadia  appear  in  the  newer  times.  If 
Vetal  Beaulieu  had  been  there  he  would  have  seen  once 
more  that  wondrous,  compelling  light  from  the  deep 
spirit  of  womanhood  which  had  swayed  and  had  fright 
ened  him  and  had  made  him  rage  and  ponder  and  weep 
the  whole  night  long. 

"My  God,  Dave  Roi,  when  I  look  at  her  standing  there 
she  is  not  my  girl  any  more.  She  is — I  can't  tell  you 
what  it  is  she  is — but  I  am  frightened  when  she  look  on 
me!"  So  had  spoken  Vetal  Beaulieu. 

"It  is  there — it  is  underneath — it  is  in  the  Acadian 
blood,"  Anaxagoras  Billedeau  had  said  when  he  saw  that 
look  in  her  eyes  on  the  long  road  to  the  north.  "It  is 
most  of  all  in  the  women." 

And  her  lover,  who  understood  her  best  of  any,  he  had 
said:  "The  Maid  of  Orleans  must  have  had  that  look  in 
her  eyes  when  the  call  came  in  the  old  days." 

Out  of  the  depths  of  her  nature,  as  she  knelt  there 
among  the  children,  came  a  power  which  dominated  her. 
Out  of  troubled,  anguished  thoughts  arose  that  impelling 
influence.  She  knew  that  men  were  met  that  day  to  settle 
a  dispute  which  meant  much  to  all  the  hopes  of  her  people. 
The  hateful  Blais  opposed  the  good  and  the  right.  He 
had  shown  joy  instead  of  remorse  when  the  big  school 
was  burned  and  the  children  were  turned  out-of-doors. 
She  had  seen  his  face  that  night.  It  was  this  man  who 
had  ruined  Father  Leclair,  that  saint  in  good  works.  Ah, 
where  would  the  poor  people  be  led  if  this  false  guide  put 
himself  before  them? 

So  her  swift  thoughts  ran. 

Devotion  called  her  spirit  to  arms. 

The  agony  of  love's  fears  wrenched  her  heart. 

The  mystery  deep  in  her  soul  gave  her  will  and  strength. 

She  arose  from  among  the  wondering    children  and 


THE    RED    LANE 

walked  down  the  hill  toward  the  village.  Her  head  was 
uncovered.  Her  dark  hair  was  bound  loosely,  and  the 
wind  waved  it  upon  her  shoulders.  She  was  erect,  wide- 
eyed,  and  went  swiftly. 

She  heard  oaths  when  she  came  near  the  square.  There 
were  loud  cries  which  signaled  the  preliminaries  of  con 
flict.  She  heard  words  of  truculent  invitation  and  shouts 
of  defiance. 

The  mass  of  men  in  front  of  the  town-house  had  lined 
in  rough  order  of  battle.  They  had  produced  stout 
cudgels,  and  those  in  the  outer  rows  clashed  these 
weapons,  each  against  his  neighbor's,  in  menacing  fash 
ion. 

But  it  was  plain  that  the  opponents  who  were  advancing 
across  the  square  were  not  deterred  by  this  bluster: 
patriotism  has  its  clarion  appeal — and  these  Frenchmen 
who  had  taken  the  vows  of  citizenship  were  patriots; 
they  were  the  men  of  the  valley  who  remembered  the 
benefits  Representative  Clifford  had  brought  north  from 
the  hands  of  their  Yankee  neighbors.  They  were  men 
who  had  been  made  dizzy  for  a  moment  by  the  harangues 
of  Louis  Blais,  but  who  had  promptly  recovered  their  sane 
senses.  They  followed  Norman  Aldrich  courageously, 
their  eyes  shining  as  they  glanced  at  the  eagle  on  his  cap, 
their  mercurial  natures  suddenly  hot  for  combat  with 
these  rascals  who  had  rushed  across  the  border  to  take 
away  from  them  the  rights  their  adopted  country  had 
given  them. 

The  girl  saw  and  understood.     She  began  to  run. 

Between  the  factions  she  came  so  suddenly — unseen 
until  the  last  minute — that  she  seemed  like  an  invoked 
spirit  of  intercession. 

She  was  an  apparition;  her  gown  of  pure  white  seemed 
whiter  by  contrast  with  those  dusty  ranks.  In  her  haste 


THE   JOAN   OF   ATTEGAT 

her  hair  had  fallen  from  its  loose  bonds.  The  men  stared 
at  her,  blinking  wonderment  and  admiration. 

The  men  of  Attegat  knew  her,  and  they  were  those  who 
wondered ;  the  hired  miscreants  of  Roi  did  not  know  her, 
and  their  flushed  faces  showed  the  admiration  that  their 
wagging  tongues  tried  to  express. 

Aldrich  stopped  in  his  tracks,  astounded,  aghast.  His 
first  thought  was  that  she  had  come  to  search  for  him; 
he  was  about  to  cry  out  to  her.  But,  though  her  eyes 
swept  him  as  she  took  her  stand  between  the  lines  of  men, 
she  did  not  address  him. 

This  was  no  shrinking  girl  apprehensive  for  the  safety 
of  a  lover! 

He  saw  her  transformed,  as  she  had  faced  him  once 
before,  her  eyes  alight  with  the  fires  of  her  soul! 

In  the  center  of  the  square,  near  where  she  stood,  was 
the  platform  of  the  village  trough  where  sweet  waters 
plashed  and  tinkled  from  their  wooden  spout. 

She  leaped  upon  the  platform.  She  raised  her  arm,  and 
the  sleeve  fell  away  from  the  rounded  flesh.  A  hush,  so 
profound  that  their  stertorous  breathing  could  be  heard, 
fell  upon  them  all.  This  girl  of  the  unbound  hair,  the 
wide,  flashing  eyes,  who  had  burst  upon  them  so  suddenly 
was  an  influence  they  had  not  expected;  but  they  in 
stinctively  responded  to  it;  they  listened  with  open 
mouths  and  cocked  ears  for  what  she  was  to  say  to  them. 

She  faced  the  crowding  men  who  blocked  the  door. 
She  knew  the  men  of  Attegat.  These  who  massed  at  the 
door  were  not  men  of  Attegat.  But  she  recognized  the 
type;  she  had  seen  them  across  the  border  at  St.  Basil. 
They  were  swarthy  men — men  of  black  beards  or  tall 
youths  with  dark  eyes  and  a  swagger  of  the  shoulders. 
They  were  French  Canadians,  most  of  them.  Her  eyes 
told  her  that  in  an  instant. 


THE    RED    LANE 

"  Messieurs,  I  know  your  hearts,  for  you  are  of  my  race. 
I  know  you  will  listen  to  a  woman." 

She  spoke  to  them  in  French.  In  that  hush  her  low, 
vibrant,  thrilling  tones  carried  to  every  ear. 

"I  do  not  come  because  I  want  to  meddle  in  great 
affairs,  my  gentlemen.  I  am  only  a  poor  Acadian  girl  who 
loves  the  good  name  of  the  men  of  her  blood.  I  do  not 
like  to  see  men  led  astray  by  the  few  who  desire  ruin  and 
wickedness,  so  that  they  may  carry  out  bad  plans  to  help 
themselves.  Those  men  let  others  take  the  blows,  and 
they  take  the  profit." 

She  had  seen  the  malevolent  face  of  Dave  Roi  where  he 
was  intrenched  among  his  supporters,  and  her  woman's 
perception  told  her  the  reason  for  the  presence  of  those 
strangers  in  Attegat. 

"For  a  few  moments  here  to-day  you  will  be  fighting 
men  if  you  persist,  Messieurs.  But  in  the  end  it  means 
fighting  women  and  children.  You  are  fighting  the  women 
who  will  be  kept  out  of  their  homes  on  the  disputed  lands, 
if  more  trouble  happens  here  on  the  border.  You  are 
fighting  poor  children  who  need  an  education.  I  look 
into  your  faces,  and  I  do  not  think  you  are  the  sort  who 
care  to  fight  women  and  children.  May  not  the  men 
vote  here  as  they  feel  they  should  vote  for  the  women  and 
the  children?  Will  you  fight  and  go  away  without  blush 
ing  when  you  think  of  those  who  must  suffer  the  most? 
I,  an  Acadian  girl,  appeal  to  you  out  of  a  full  heart  and 
from  the  depths  of  my  soul." 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  them,  her  beautiful  face 
glowing  with  the  earnestness  of  appeal,  her  voice  trembling 
with  the  passion  that  was  in  her. 

Ah,  she  understood  those  men  of  her  blood;  those 
Frenchmen  whose  volatile  natures  had  not  been  crushed 
out  of  them  by  the  wild  life  of  forest  and  stream,  who 

320 


I,  AN  ACADIAN  GIRL,  APPEAL  TO  YOU -FROM  THE  DEPTHS  OF  MY  SOUL 


THE    JOAN   OF    ATTEGAT 

under  all  the  ribaldry  of  border  life  preserved  that  Gallic 
gallantry,  those  manners  of  courtesy  tracing  back  to  the 
fathers,  that  spirit  of  quixotic  fervor  in  the  duty  owed 
to  a  handsome  girl. 

They  were  Frenchmen! 

Their  eyes,  upraised  to  hers,  shone ;  their  hats  came  off. 
Their  potations  had  hardened  them  for  battle  with  men. 
But  these  same  potations  mellowed  them  when  a  woman's 
tongue  besought,  when  a  woman's  dark  eyes  met  theirs, 
when  a  woman's  cause  was  so  unhesitatingly  put  into 
their  hands. 

"It's  little  I  ask  of  you,  good  gentlemen.  Only  that 
the  men  of  my  blood  and  yours  shall  be  allowed  to  put 
their  votes  in  the  box  in  their  own  village." 

With  her  hands  still  outstretched  she  came  down  from 
the  platform.  She  was  heartened  by  their  countenances, 
by  their  murmurs.  She  smiled  on  them  trustfully. 

The  girl  had  noted  where  Representative  Clifford  and 
Notary  Pierre  had  thrust  themselves  to  the  front  of  the 
loyal  citizens  of  Attegat  and  were  staring  up  at  her  with 
the  aspect  of  men  who  were  beholding  a  saint  working 
a  miracle.  She  went  and  stood  between  them,  giving  a 
hand  to  each.  Then  she  led  them  toward  the  unbroken 
phalanx  of  the  men  who  blocked  the  way  to  the  town- 
house  door. 

The  trustful  smile  was  more  sweetly  radiant  on  her 
face.  She  shook  back  her  dark  curls,  her  chin  tip-tilted, 
and  showed  them  that  face,  flushed,  entreating. 

Some  of  the  men  began  to  thrust  with  elbows  and 
shoulders.  They  growled  at  laggards.  They  threatened 
sullen  rebels. 

The  way  to  the  door  was  open ! 

She  passed  up  the  narrow  lane  of  her  converts,  who 
stood  with  bared  heads.  She  walked  between  the  two 

321 


THE    RED    LANE 

old  men,  the  candidate  and  the  chairman,  holding  their 
wrinkled  hands. 

She  did  not  behold  what  happened  at  one  side  of  the 
throng,  though  she  heard  the  noise  of  it. 

Roi  had  been  swearing  hoarsely  at  his  men.  He  had 
plowed  his  way  roughly  among  them,  here  and  there, 
insulting  them  by  word  and  prodding  fist,  inciting  them 
to  do  his  bidding. 

At  last  he  drove  his  hand  with  wicked  venom  between 
the  shoulders  of  a  sturdy  riverman  and  spat  a  vicious 
taunt  at  him.  That  man,  his  face  convulsed,  his  eyes 
red  with  sudden  passion,  spoke  the  thought  that  was 
then  in  the  minds  of  the  throng:  " Damn  your  dirty  soul! 
Do  you  think  five  dollars  of  your  stolen  money  can  hire 
me  to  fight  a  girl?" 

A  nastier  taunt  was  flung  at  him  by  the  infuriated  em 
ployer.  With  an  oath  of  protest  he  struck  Roi  full  in 
the  face,  and  the  smuggler  went  down  like  a  log.  He 
struggled  for  a  few  moments  among  the  legs  of  the  men, 
and  then  crawled  away  on  his  hands  and  knees,  shielded 
from  observation  as  he  made  his  escape.  His  horse  was 
at  the  corner  of  the  building.  He  mounted  and  galloped 
away.  He  understood  then  the  new  spirit  of  that  crowd. 
It  had  been  thirsty  for  a  fight  with  men;  it  was  just  as 
ready  to  resent  insult  offered  to  a  pretty  woman. 

Norman  Aldrich  did  not  note  this  escape  of  his  prisoner. 
He  was  standing  mute,  motionless,  stricken,  gazing  at 
Evangeline,  his  emotions  swelling  in  his  throat,  his  eyes 
brimming  with  tears,  his  love  lifted  to  the  holy  height  of 
adoration. 

She  paused  at  the  door,  gently  pushed  the  two  old  men 
ahead  of  her  into  the  building,  and  turned  and  faced  them 
all  once  more. 

"All  my  thanks  to  you,  Messieurs!  May  my  friends 
322 


THE   JOAN   OF   ATTEGAT 

come  in?"  Again  that  trustful  smile  illumined  her  face, 
the  smile  that  took  her  race  into  her  confidence. 

A  tall  man  stepped  from  the  throng  of  the  aliens  and 
bowed,  his  hat  on  his  breast. 

"The  polls  are  open,  Mam'selle,"  he  said.  And  the 
sinister  hundred  from  across  the  border  broke  up  into 
groups  and  left  the  way  clear  for  the  voters  of  Attegat. 

"Let  me  tell  you  this,  Notary  Pierre,"  said  the  patri 
arch,  as  they  mounted  the  rostrum  of  the  town-house, 
"  God  knows  His  own  business  best.  I  have  been  blaming 
Him  because  I  didn't  hear  from  Billedeau.  But  I  reckon 
that  God  kept  Pere  Leclair  away  so  that  the  girl  His 
Providence  sent  to  us  could  have  a  clear  field." 


XXV 


A    RAGGED   FAIRY   GODFATHER 

0,  cowering  in  the  midst  of  the  city's 
ramp  and  rattle,  Anaxagoras  Billedeau 
waited ! 

Through  weary  days  and  anxious  nights 
— messenger  and  martyr  —  chosen  from 
all  Attegat  for  that  sacrifice,  the  dusty, 
tousled  old  fiddler  waited — waited  in  tortures  of  doubt, 
in  agony  of  hope,  while  his  eyes  sank  deeper  under  their 
tufted  brows  and  new  wrinkles  etched  themselves  across 
his  cheeks. 

O'  days  he  crouched  under  his  tree  in  the  park  and 
listened  to  the  city's  roar,  furtive  and  fearing,  like  a  forest 
animal  at  bay. 

O'  nights,  though  the  hideous  jargon  of  humanity  was 
stilled,  sounds  more  mystic,  more  portentous,  heaved  on 
the  air  from  all  about  him — sounds  his  ears  could  not 
translate.  But  he  had  the  instinct  that  belongs  to  the 
man  of  the  open  country ;  and  he  sensed  something  quiv 
ering  about  him  like  the  vast  respiration  of  a  monster, 
and  he  leaned  against  the  tree's  shaggy  bark  and  stared 
into  the  gloom  and  was  afraid. 

There  were  crusts  in  the  bucket;  there  was  water  in 
the  fountain.  He  ate  sparingly,  and  he  drank  thirstily. 
He  dwelt  in  the  park  as  the  swallows  dwelt  there,  picking 

324 


A    RAGGED    GODFATHER 

at  his  crusts,  drinking  and  laving  his  face  at  the  fountain's 
brim. 

When  the  east  was  flushed  and  he  knew  that  the  great 
doors  of  his  church  were  open,  he  crept  into  the  dim 
sanctuary  and  solaced  his  soul  with  humble  prayer. 
Sometimes  he  dared  to  remain  in  his  corner  until  the 
organ  rolled  its  mighty  tones  through  nave  and  transept, 
the  diapason  making  the  pavement  quiver  under  his 
knees  while  the  playful  scherzo  of  the  trilling  notes  winged, 
high  in  the  echoing  spaces  above  him.  He  heard  the  dis 
tant  voices  of  unseen  singers  and  the  dull  drone  of  a 
chanting  voice,  and  his  soul  thrilled  with  the  mystery  of 
devotion. 

At  such  time's  he  thought  of  the  poor  people  of  the  val 
ley  of  the  St.  John,  and,  though  his  eyes  filled  and  his 
throat  ached,  new  fervor  of  determination  came  over 
him. 

He  rose  from  his  knees  and  went  forth  and  trudged 
valiantly  to  the  oak  door  under  the  porte  cochere.  Each 
morning  when  the  tower  clock  marked  the  hour  of  nine 
he  went  to  the  bishop's  door  and  beat  on  it  with  his  fist. 
Each  morning  he  was  sent  away.  His  dismissal  was 
given  through  the  crack  of  the  door,  for  this  persistent 
man  with  the  solemn  face  and  the  sunken  eyes  and  his 
everlasting  quest  of  "the  great  bishop"  seemed  bent 
upon  some  sinister  errand. 

Behind  the  door  there  had  been  much  talk  regarding 
him  among  the  diocesan  subordinates.  He  brought  pa 
pers  from  Attegat,  he  had  told  them.  Very  well,  but 
why  did  he  not  leave  the  papers?  Why  did  he  not  do  as 
Father  Callahan  had  requested?  This  insistence  upon  an 
interview  with  the  bishop  himself  had  a  flavor  of  suspicious 
determination.  There  was  disaffection  in  Attegat.  Ru 
mors  had  come  from  that  far  parish.  There  were  grudges. 
22  32S 


This  man  might  prove  to  be  a  dangerous  person  if  he  were 
admitted  to  the  presence  of  the  diocesan  head.  He  must 
be  kept  away.  Perhaps  it  would  be  well  to  call  the 
police  if  he  continued  this  persecution.  At  all  events, 
the  bishop  must  not  be  informed  of  this  desperate  effort 
to  enter.  The  bishop  was  old,  and  he  was  not  well,  and 
such  bodeful  persistency  might  worry  him.  So  those 
behind  the  door  decided. 

"Yet  I  will  see  him.  I  have  been  sent  to  see  him," 
Billedeau  muttered,  plodding  back  to  the  park,  his  blue 
bucket  on  his  arm — a  light  burden  now. 

Came  one  to  him  where  he  sat  under  his  tree  on  a  sunny 
afternoon — a  fellow  unkempt,  his  face  mossy  with  patches 
of  beard,  a  vagrant,  and  yet  his  eyes  were  bright,  and  the 
sharpness  of  a  man  who  has  lived  long  on  his  wits  among 
men  marked  his  demeanor. 

"You  have  come  here  to  stay,  have  you,  my  cock 
sparrow?"  inquired  the  stranger.  "I  have  been  piping 
you  for  a  week." 

"I  stop  here  till  I  have  done  my  business,  M'ser." 
Anaxagoras  put  his  hand  upon  the  little  wad  of  money, 
alarm  in  his  soul. 

"What  is  vour  business — yag,  vag,  hobo,  moucher,  or 
bum?" 

"I  think  I  do  none  of  those — I'm  poor  man — I  have 
learned  no  trade  like  you  say !  I  fiddle  for  my  living  among 
the  poor  folks,  my  friends,  in  the  St.  John  Valley." 

The  fellow  sat  down  on  the  grass  and  looked  the  old 
man  over  with  new  interest. 

"Well,  Fiddler,  in  the  name  of  the  Ancient  Order  of 
Grass  Warmers  I  welcome  you  to  our  city.  I  can't  pre 
sent  you  with  the  keys,  because  we  never  lock  our  bed 
room  doors." 

The  old  man  blinked  without  understanding  this  chatter. 

326 


A    RAGGED    GODFATHER 

He  stammered:  "Merci,  M'ser!"  several  times,  feeling 
that  some  sort  of  kindness — he  did  not  know  just  what — 
had  been  offered  to  him  by  this  stranger  of  the  sharp  eyes 
and  the  glib  tongue. 

"I  say,  old  man,  you  ain't  what  I  took  you  for  in  the 
first  place,"  cried  the  stranger,  after  a  further  shrewd 
survey  of  the  queer  garments,  the  sunburnt  face,  the 
blue  bucket. 

He  lighted  the  stub  of  a  cigar  that  he  fished  from  a 
pocket  of  his  sagging  waistcoat. 

"You're  in  the  dumps,  old  fellow.  You  haven't  been 
larking  and  playing  lately.  I've  had  my  eye  on  you. 
Now  out  with  it!  You  need  to  talk  to  some  one.  I'll 
listen.  Maybe  I'm  your  fairy  godfather  in  disguise. 
Perhaps  you  have  got  a  worse  tale  of  woe  than  mine  is; 
if  that  is  so  it  will  make  me  cheer  up  to  hear  it.  Go 
ahead!" 

Ah,  the  days  that  Anaxagoras  Billedeau  had  not  been 
able  to  talk  with  any  one  in  that  wilderness  of  humanity ! 
He  who  had  always  found  so  many  folks  to  talk  with  along 
the  roads  of  the  border !  His  troubles  swelled  within  him, 
eager  to  take  the  form  of  words.  This  ragged  man  with 
the  cheery  eyes  had  been  the  first  to  look  at  him  as  one 
fellow-man  should  look  at  another. 

Billedeau  dragged  his  shabby  hat  from  his  gray  hair 
and  twisted  it  between  his  nervous  hands.  Speech  burst 
from  him.  Yes,  here  was  a  man  who  would  listen!  Till 
now  he  could  talk  only  to  the  sparrows,  the  cloud  shadows, 
and  the  trees. 

He  told  the  story  of  the  troubles  of  Attegat,  how  he 
had  been  sent  on  this  far  journey,  and  his  voice  trembled 
with  the  pathos  of  unshed  tears  as  he  pointed  to  the  golden 
cross  above  the  tree-tops  and  related  how  he  had  laid 
siege  to  the  great  bishop's  oak  door. 

327 


THE    RED    LANE 

Another  man  who  had  been  loafing  at  a  distance,  a 
slouching  figure  of  a  man,  saw  the  waving  hands  and  heard 
the  shrill  tones  in  which  the  old  fiddler  voiced  his  sorrow. 
He  came,  dragging  his  feet  on  the  grass,  and  sat  down 
beside  the  fellow  of  the  sharp  eyes  and  nudged  him  after 
he  had  listened  for  a  time. 

"Say,  this  will  be  easy  picking,  bo,"  he  whispered. 
"He  must  have  the  price  of  a  return  hidden  on  him. 
Let's  you  and  me  make  a  brother  job  of  it  as  soon  as  it 
comes  dark." 

Billedeau  had  finished  his  story  and  was  looking  at 
them  wistfully. 

The  man  of  the  sharp  eyes  turned  slowly  and  regarded 
the  new  arrival  with  chilling  stare. 

"Don't  you  realize  that  you  are  shoving  yourself  in 
on  a  private  talk  between  friends?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  sneered  the  other.  "When  you  get  a  real 
good  thing  you  don't  want  to  split  with  a  pal.  Intend  to 
take  it  all  for  yourself,  eh?" 

The  sharp  eyes  fixed  themselves  once  more  on  the  old 
man's  face. 

"Fiddler,  have  you  got  money  in  your  clothes?" 

For  a  moment  Billedeau  hesitated.  But  the  eyes  were 
not  hostile.  There  was  something  frank  and  compelling 
in  them;  and  the  man  had  listened  so  carefully! 

"I  have  money,"  he  faltered.  "It  is  not  mine.  It  is 
much  money  for  a  poor  man  to  have.  I  have  worried 
all  the  nights." 

"Fiddler,  you  hurry  over  to  your  church,  there.  Speak 
to  the  first  priest  you  see.  Tell  him  you're  a  stranger 
and  ask  him  to  care  for  your  money  until  you  call  for  it. 
There  are  thieves  in  a  city  like  this.  Here  is  a  sample  of 
one  of  them — this  man  sitting  beside  me.  Go,  leave  your 
money.  I  will  watch  your  bucket  until  you  come  back," 

328 


A    RAGGED    GODFATHER 

The  fiddler  cast  a  horrified  look  at  the  person  who  had 
been  pointed  out  as  one  of  those  wicked  pursuers  of  other 
folk's  money  against  whom  he  had  been  warned.  He 
trotted  away,  his  palm  pressing  hard  upon  the  little  wad 
in  his  trousers  pocket. 

"When  you  propose  to  be  a  friend  to  one  in  need  it's 
well  to  remove  temptation  from  your  path,"  muttered 
he  of  the  sharp  eyes. 

All  at  once  the  consciousness  came  to  him  that  the  man 
at  his  side  was  cursing  him  horribly. 

He  leaped  to  his  feet  and  dragged  the  other  up,  then  he 
kicked  the  slouchy  curser  for  half  a  dozen  paces  along  the 
turf. 

"That's  a  hint  for  you  to  leave  a  gentleman  undis 
turbed  when  he  wants  to  meditate  on  the  troubles  of  his 
friends,"  he  informed  his  captive  when  he  had  cast  him 
off.  He  went  back  to  the  bucket,  stretching  his  arms 
above  his  head.  "That's  one  curse  of  this  happy  life 
of  a  hobo  for  a  man  educated  for  something  else,"  he 
soliloquized.  "There  are  so  many  cheap  muckers  who 
take  to  the  road!  But  I  suppose  I  would  have  found 
just  as  many  cheap  ones  in  the  law  if  I  had  stuck 
on." 

Billedeau,  returning,  found  his  new  friend  sitting  on 
the  grass  pensively  skinning  seeds  from  a  stalk  of  robin's 
plantain  with  his  thumb-nail. 

"He  took  the  cash,  eh?" 

"Yes,  M'ser." 

"There  are  some  ways  in  which  the  pulpit  can  bless  the 
world." 

He  was  silent  for  some  time,  busy  at  his  plantains, 
plucking  one  after  the  other. 

"So  you  want  to  see  the  bishop,  eh,  my  friend?" 

He  glanced  sideways  at  Billedeau,  and  the  old  man 

329 


THE    RED    LANE 

nodded  his  head,  as  though  he  did  not  dare  to  burst  into 
speech  again. 

"Do  you  suppose  you  can  talk  to  him  as  well  as  you  just 
talked  to  me,  Fiddler?  For  if  you  can,  I  understand  why 
some  chap  up  your  way  was  wise  enough  to  put  you  onto 
this  job  you've  got.  I  know  good  jury  talk — what  kind 
wins  verdicts.  I  used  to  be  a  lawyer." 

Billedeau  did  not  reply,  for  he  did  not  understand  now. 

"  It  was  good  talk,  Fiddler.  It  had  to  be  good  talk  to 
fix  me — and  it  did  just  that!  It's  a  great  thing,  is  talk! 
It  has  won  kingdoms,  it  has  overthrown  monarchies,  when 
the  soul  was  behind  simple  sentences.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  men  have  yawned  and  slept  through  grand  sen 
tences  which  had  not  soul  behind  them.  I  don't  think 
I  would  have  made  a  good  lawyer,  anyway.  There  was 
never  much  soul  in  me.  You  surprised  me  just  now  when 
your  talk  uncovered  a  little  spark  of  soul.  But  it  was  good 
talk,  Fiddler,  mighty  good  talk!  It  had  to  be,  I  say,  to 
swing  me  as  it  did." 

He  tossed  a  handful  of  plantain  seeds  toward  some 
sparrows. 

"It  looks  as  though  you  need  a  little  help  in  this  thing, 
doesn't  it,  Fiddler?  I  wish  there  was  a  little  more  horse 
power  to  me — I  could  boost  harder.  But  I've  found 
that  these  hundred-horse-power  fellows  are  too  busy 
boosting  for  themselves.  It's  usually  left  for  some  poor 
cuss  to  help  the  other  poor  cuss  in  this  world.  But  not 
much  power  in  me,  and  a  mighty  short  pole  for  boosting ! 
And  a  bishop  is  high  up!" 

He  pondered  for  a  time,  and  Billedeau  crushed  his  hat 
between  his  knees  and  gazed  on  this  new  friend  hopefully 
and  hungrily. 

"Let's  see — did  you  ever  lay  eyes  on  your  bishop?" 

"Oh  no,  M'ser,"  said  the  fiddler,  with  awe. 
330 


A    RAGGED    GODFATHER 

"He's  a  nice,  kind-looking  old  gentleman.  He  and  I 
haven't  a  speaking  acquaintance,  you  understand.  But 
I  see  him  riding  around  the  streets  every  now  and  then. 
No  style  to  him,  not  at  all,  Fiddler!  He  goes  poking 
around  in  a  phaeton  as  broad  as  a  hen's  nest,  driving  an 
old  plug  of  a  white  horse  all  by  himself.  I  reckon  those 
priests  haven't  told  him  about  you  at  all — don't  propose 
to  let  you  get  at  him.  Looks  like  that!  Sometimes 
that's  how  the  men  in  high  places  get  the  reputation  of 
being  hard — the  understrappers  are  too  officious." 

He  arose  suddenly  and  motioned  to  the  old  man  to  get 
up. 

"Understand,  this  is  only  a  gambler's  chance  we're 
taking,  Fiddler!  It  may  not  work.  If  I  were  more  of 
a  tool  I  could  plan  something  worth  while.  But  poor 
devils  like  you  and  me  have  got  to  gamble.  Come  along. 
I'll  do  a  little  more  thinking  on  the  way." 

With  his  heart  in  his  mouth  the  old  man  followed.  His 
guide  did  not  go  toward  the  bishop's  house,  as  Billedeau 
had  expected.  He  started  away  in  another  direction, 
and  the  fiddler  was  astonished,  for  devious  methods  of 
going  about  great  affairs  were  not  understood  by  his 
straightforward  nature;  he  had  gone  to  the  bishop's  door, 
for  his  business  was  there — he  had  gone  again  and  again. 

"Don't  be  frightened — don't  be  surprised,"  his  com 
panion  said.  "You  understand  now  that  I  am  not  after 
your  money.  But  in  this  life,  Fiddler,  the  roundabout 
way  with  big  men  is  sometimes  the  only  shrewd  way. 
You  haven't  learned  that  yet.  You  haven't  had  to  prac 
tise  it.  I  have  had  to  think  up  those  roundabout  ways 
so  as  to  get  my  rake-off  from  life.  Perhaps  I  can  be  your 
fairy  godfather  after  all." 

Past  great  buildings,  zigzagging  from  street  to  street, 
they  went  on  until  they  came  to  woods  once  more,  greater 


THE    RED    LANE 

woods  than  there  were  in  the  little  park.  There  was  a 
small  lake  whereon  swans  floated.  Children  played  under 
the  trees.  Broad,  smooth  roads  led  here  and  there.  The 
dusty  old  man  with  the  blue  bucket  and  the  ragged  fellow 
at  his  side  seemed  more  unkempt  against  that  background, 
and  smartly  attired  folk  who  strolled  along  the  avenues 
frowned  upon  them  as  they  passed. 

"And  yet  they  ought  to  appreciate  us  from  an  artistic 
standpoint,  Fiddler,  because  a  bit  of  a  ruin  in  a  landscape 
makes  the  rest  seem  more  beautiful."  But  the  old  man 
had  given  up  trying  to  understand  the  strange  chatter 
of  this  ragged  chap  of  the  sharp  eyes. 

They  came  at  last  to  a  bench  beside  a  shaded  drive 
and  sat  upon  the  cool  zinc  of  the  rest-place. 

"He  may  drive  here  to-day,  he  may  not,  Fiddler.  I 
only  know  that  I  have  seen  him  drive  here  many  times; 
and  old  men  stick  to  their  old  habits.  Now,  if  you  get 
the  chance  to  speak  to  him — if  this  gamble  works — remem 
ber  your  card,  Fiddler.  I  mean  to  say,  remember  those 
poor  folks  you  were  telling  me  about!  Forget  that  he 
is  a  bishop.  Keep  thinking  that  he  is  a  kind-faced  old 
gentleman  who  needs  a  little  talking  to.  Put  in  your  best 
licks!  Get  that  packet  of  papers  handy.  I'll  be  mighty 
ashamed  of  you  if  you  can't  talk  twice  as  well  to  him  as 
you  talked  to  me.  No,  leave  those  beads  alone,  now. 
Pray  later  on!  Double  your  fists  like  a  man  and  remem 
ber  your  good  priest,  whatever  his  name  is,  and  your  peo 
ple  who  are  waiting  to  hear  whether  you  have  made 
good." 

On  and  on  went  the  chatter  of  the  ragged  fellow,  en 
couragement,  adjuration,  and  appeal,  and  Billedeau 
ceased  to  tremble,  and  the  spirit  of  Acadia  began  to  warm 
his  breast.  Time,  too,  went  on  and  on,  and  the  shadows 
lengthened  on  the  grass,  and  the  children  ran  away  home, 

332 


A    RAGGED    GODFATHER 

and  the  stately  folk  who  walked  and  rustled  and  flounced 
thinned  from  the  avenues. 

Up  the  shaded  vista  and  down  the  shaded  vista  the 
sharp  eyes  kept  darting. 

All  at  once  he  cried  out  so  suddenly  that  Anaxagoras 
leaped  upon  the  bench. 

"Stand  by,  Fiddler!  Grab  your  chance  if  it  comes  to 
you!  For  your  life,  now,  when  I  yell  the  word.  That  word 
will  be '  Fiddler. '  When  I  yell '  Fiddler '  it  will  be  your  move !' ' 

He  beat  his  fist  upon  the  old  man's  shoulder  to  em 
phasize  his  orders.  Then  he  hurried  to  the  edge  of  the 
sward  that  hemmed  the  white  surface  of  the  avenue. 

Far  up  the  vista,  emerging  like  a  white  cloud  from  a 
cavern,  came  a  fat  horse,  plodding  with  sluggish  trot.  Soon 
the  clup-clop  of  the  animal's  hoofs  sounded  in  Billedeau's 
ear,  but  whether  he  were  hearing  the  hoofs  or  his  own  heart 
beats  he  did  not  know.  In  his  misty  eyes  the  carriage 
behind  the  horse  took  form.  Framed  between  the  canopy's 
spreaders,  outlined  against  the  gloom  of  the  carriage's 
interior,  was  a  face.  On  that  face  Billedeau  stared,  as 
one  lifts  fearing,  fervent,  adoring  gaze  to  a  revealed 
divinity.  What  he  felt  within  him  was  not  recognition 
of  a  great  man;  it  was  instinct  telling  his  startled  soul 
that  this  was  he!  It  was  the  great  bishop!  He  pulled 
off  his  hat  and  dropped  it  under  the  bench.  He  sat  like 
one  paralyzed,  jaw  drooping,  eyes  protruding. 

The  ragged  man  waited  until  the  dozing,  unsuspicious 
horse  was  nearly  abreast.  Then  with  a  deft  jerk  of  the 
wrist  he  snapped  his  dented  bowler-hat  spinning  under 
the  animal's  feet.  The  act  was  concealed  from  the  bishop, 
but  the  horse  saw  and  tried  to  gather  all  four  of  his  hoofs 
off  the  ground  at  the  same  time,  snorting  his  fright  at 
sight  of  this  rolling,  spinning,  leaping  thing  that  came  at 
him  like  some  savage  little  beast  from  the  covert. 

333 


THE    RED    LANE 

The  next  moment  the  ragged  man  leaped  forward  and 
seized  the  struggling,  shying  horse  by  the  bits. 

"Do  not  be  frightened,  Bishop,"  shouted  the  fellow. 
"I'll  hold  him  until  he  is  quiet.  A  squirrel  frightened 
him.  Horses  are  such  silly  beasts,  Bishop.  Whoa, 
horse."  He  had  pulled  the  animal  to  a  stop.  "Whoa — 
Fiddler!" 

The  word  moved  Billedeau  as  a  charged  wire  might 
have  jumped  him.  He  leaped  from  his  bench.  He  ran 
to  the  side  of  the  phaeton.  He  kneeled  in  the  dust  of  the 
road.  He  dragged  the  precious  packet  from  his  pocket. 
Down  his  upraised  face  tears  streamed. 

"From  Attegat — from  far-off  Attegat,  great  Bishop! 
I  have  come  all  the  way.  I  am  from  the  poor  people. 
Oh,  on  my  knees  I  pray  you!  These  are  the  names.  It 
is  for  the  good  priest  whom  we  love.  They  are  asking 
it  of  the  good  God  on  their  knees.  I  ask  it  of  you  on  my 
knees!" 

The  bishop's  alarmed  eyes  traveled  from  the  stilled 
horse  to  the  upraised  face,  to  the  pathetic  man  who 
kneeled  in  the  dust  beside  his  carriage. 

Speech  was  bursting  from  the  old  man.  The  packet 
wavered  in  his  outstretched  hands.  His  hands  were 
trembling  as  do  the  hands  of  one  with  ague. 

"Wait — wait,  my  son,"  commanded  the  bishop,  at  last. 
"Do  you  mean  you  have  been  sent  with  a  message  to 
me?  Then  why  have  you  not  come  to  my  residence?  A 
message  from  the  people  of  Attegat?  It  should  have  been 
given  to  me?" 

Again  —  stammering,  sobbing,  pleading  —  Anaxagoras 
faltered  the  poor  little  story  of  his  quest,  his  weary  wait 
ing,  his  hopes,  his  fears,  his  patience. 

Gently  the  bishop  took  the  packet,  leaning  from  his 
carriage. 

334 


A    RAGGED    GODFATHER 

The  ragged  fellow  was  holding  the  horse,  caressing  the 
white  nose. 

"The  story — the  great  story!  I  have  to  tell  it  to  you, 
oh,  reverenced  Bishop.  It  is  in  my  heart — all  the  story 
of  my  poor  people  who  look  to  you — who  adore  you." 

Ah,  that  pleading  of  the  humble  and  the  sincere !  That 
wondrous  human  quality  of  soul  behind  the  spoken  word ! 

"You  shall  tell  me,  my  son,"  said  the  bishop.  "To 
what  place  shall  I  send  for  you?" 

"I  have  slept  the  many  nights  under  the  trees,  waiting. 
I  have  no  place,"  sobbed  Anaxagoras  Billedeau. 

The  bishop  hesitated  for  one  moment  only.  He 
looked  at  the  ragged  man  who  held  the  passive  horse; 
he  glanced  at  the  blue  bucket  beside  the  bench. 

"Is  that  yours — that  bucket?" 

"I  brought  in  it  what  I  eat — I  brought  it  from  Attegat." 

"  Get  it,  my  son,  and  come  into  my  carriage.  We  shall 
hear  this  story  from  Attegat,"  said  the  bishop. 

"Good-by,  Fiddler,"  said  the  ragged  man,  as  he  patted 
the  horse's  nose  and  released  the  bits.  He  looked  at 
Billedeau  as  he  said  it  and  smiled  as  the  carriage  rolled 
on.  But  the  old  man  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  cushioned 
seat,  stricken,  voiceless,  trembling;  and  so  he  passed  on, 
and  he  and  the  ragged  man  never  saw  each  other  again 
in  this  life. 

The  ragged  man  plodded  after  the  carriage,  rubbing 
his  dented  hat  on  his  elbow. 

"I  wonder  whether  God  is  going  to  remember  me  at 
supper-time  for  this  job,"  he  murmured. 


XXVI 


THE   PICTURES   THE   BISHOP   SAW 

LUP-CLOP,  the  white  horse  of  the  bishop's 
phaeton  plodded  on;  clop-clup,  and  the 
heart  of  Anaxagoras  Billedeau  thudded 
its  beats,  keeping  time  to  the  beats  of  the 
hoofs. 

Anxiety,  vigils,  and  privation  had 
wrought  their  havoc  in  the  simple  mind  of  the  old  fiddler. 
His  mental  hold  upon  the  verities  of  life  had  become 
attenuated.  He  had  been  thrust  into  a  world  of  un 
realities  when  he  came  out  from  the  placid  valley  of  the 
St.  John.  There  in  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  city  he  had 
been  in  a  waking  dream. 

Plod-plod,  the  bishop's  horse  went  on  under  the  long 
shadows  of  the  park's  trees. 

Who  was  this  sitting  so  straight  on  the  edge  of  the 
cushioned  seat  of  the  bishop's  carriage — a  figure  so  stark 
ly  stiff  that  it  seemed  like  something  carved  from  wood? 
Surely  this  could  not  be  himself,  not  Billedeau  the  fiddler ! 
Those  were  his  gnarled  old  hands  that  clutched  the  hat 
he  had  not  dared  to  put  on ;  surely  those  were  the  hands 
of  Billedeau!  He  had  viewed  them  for  many  years;  he 
could  feel  the  callousness  that  the  fiddle's  strings  had 
thickened. 

Sitting  one  night  with  his  shoulders  against  the  shaggy 
bark  of  his  friend,  the  tree — his  only  friend  in  that  wilder 
ness  of  bricks  and  humanity — he  had  dreamed  that  the 

336 


WHAT   THE    BISHOP    SAW 

great  bishop  had  spoken  kindly  to  him  and  had  smiled 
on  him. 

But  surely  this  was  a  more  wonderful  dream! 

Click-clack!  The  hoofs  were  now  on  the  stones  of 
the  street,  and  the  phaeton  was  passing  in  the  shadows 
of  great  buildings.  There  were  many  clattering  wagons, 
and  cars  rushed  past,  and  the  bishop  was  intent  upon  his 
reins.  He  did  not  speak.  Yes,  it  was  a  dream!  It  was 
only  more  of  that  unspeakable  jostle  and  hurry  and  tu 
mult  of  the  city  he  had  been  hating  and  fearing — its 
dreadfulness  put  into  more  hideous  contrast  by  that 
serene  figure  at  his  side — and  all  for  his  woe  and  his  un 
doing — for  he  must  waken. 

Clack-clock,  click-clack — on  and  on!  Through  canons 
of  roaring  streets,  across  squares  where  humanity  flowed 
and  eddied!  What  devils  were  those  fiends  who  sent 
such  dreams  as  this  to  torture  the  soul  of  a  poor  fiddler 
who  had  tried  so  hard  and  had  failed! 

Then,  at  last,  softened  blows  of  the  hoofs  upon  loose 
gravel. 

The  white  horse  had  drawn  them  under  the  archway  of 
the  bishop's  gate. 

Billedeau  could  hear  his  heart  beat  now,  beating  like 
the  sound  of  galloping  hoofs. 

Under  the  sunset  gloom  of  the  porte  cochhe!  The  oak 
door  was  flung  wide.  No  longer  the  jealous  crack  of  an 
opening  that  had  greeted  the  poor  petitioner  from  At- 
tegat.  Obsequious  attendants  came  trailing  their  robes 
to  the  carriage's  side.  They  gave  hands  to  the 
bishop. 

"Follow  me,  my  son,"  directed  the  reverend  man. 
"Leave  your  bucket.  It  will  be  cared  for." 

Anaxagoras  Billedeau  had  no  side  glances  for  the  as 
tonished  faces  of  those  who  received  the  bishop.  His 

337 


THE    RED   LANE 

eyes,  as  round  and  as  hard  as  marbles,  were  on  the  ven 
erable,  bowed  figure  ahead  of  him. 

Through  the  bare  and  echoing  hall,  up  broad  stairs, 
past  double  portals,  and  into  a  lofty  room,  where  he  stood, 
not  daring  to  raise  his  eyes! 

When  he  did  lift  them,  at  last,  at  sound  of  the  bishop's 
voice  his  startled  vision  took  in  the  broad  band  of  pur 
ple  that  incased  the  great  man's  waist,  the  purple  fringe 
of  the  little  cape,  and  he  saw  the  great  purple  stone  of  the 
bishop's  ring.  He  sank  to  his  knees.  No,  this  could  not 
be  a  dream! 

"Rise — rise,  my  son!  Sit  there.  We  are  to  have  a 
talk,  you  and  I.  It  seems  that  I  should  know  some  things 
concerning  your  parish  that  I  have  not  understood." 

He  began  to  question  gently.  He  patted  the  packet 
of  papers.  He  asked  about  the  names. 

And,  after  a  time,  the  great  lump  in  the  throat  of  the 
fiddler  was  pressed  down  by  his  trembling  fingers.  At 
first  he  quavered  answers  to  questions.  But  he  dared  to 
raise  his  eyes  above  the  purple  band.  The  face  he  saw  was 
benignant,  placid,  reassuring.  The  eyes  were  brown  and 
tender.  The  mouth  that  could  set  itself  so  straightly  on 
occasion,  the  brows  that  could  knit,  as  the  wrinkles  so 
plainly  indicated,  now  expressed  toleration,  kindness,  ex 
pectancy.  The  bishop  of  the  diocese  knew  men;  and  he 
had  been  touched  to  his  depths  by  this  appealing  emissary 
from  the  north — this  poor  man  who  expressed  humility 
and  reverence  and  awe  so  profoundly. 

A  "psychological  instrument"!  Sagacious  old  patri 
arch — Clifford,  a  man  who  had  studied  men!  You  would 
have  reveled  in  that  scene  in  the  great  chamber  of  the 
bishop  of  the  diocese. 

For  Billedeau,  heartened,  sympathy  drawing  language 
from  him  as  naturally  as  the  sun  draws  moisture  from  the 

338 


WHAT   THE    BISHOP    SAW 

sea,  gave  out  his  story  from  the  full  reservoir  of  his 
being. 

The  bishop  leaned  his  head  back  against  the  dark 
leather  of  his  chair,  interlaced  his  long,  white  fingers,  and 
gazed  at  the  ceiling. 

As  Billedeau  talked,  the  simple  eloquence  of  his  full 
heart  rushing  from  his  lips,  the  bishop  saw  strange  pictures 
take  form  in  the  shadows  of  the  ceiling's  moldings. 

He  could  look  into  the  homes,  the  plain  little  homes 
which  dotted  the  green  hills  of  the  valley  of  the  far  St. 
John.  He  could  hear  the  plaintive  whirr  of  the  spinning- 
wheels,  the  chatter  of  the  children,  the  croon  of  the  old 
Acadian  chansons.  He  could  see  the  quiver  of  the  blue 
blaze  above  the  hillside  farms,  the  sheen  of  the  lights  on 
the  ripples  of  the  river.  He  could  hear  the  tinkle  of  hoe 
against  the  stones  of  the  narrow  farms. 

He  heard  the  thrill  of  the  music  when  the  poor  folks 
lightened  their  toil  with  a  dance  on  the  grass. 

He  heard  the  mellow  bell  of  the  parish  church  of  Atte- 
gat  peal  its  summons  across  the  meadow  where  the  Sun 
day  calm  breathed  above  the  alders  and  hushed  the  brooks. 
He  saw  the  long  lines  of  buckboards  winding  down  tow 
ard  the  village  square  under  the  banners  of  white  dust. 
He  saw  little  Father  Leclair  walking  from  the  stone  house, 
his  rusty  cassock  dragging  on  his  heels. 

He  saw  him  ministering  to  his  people,  understanding 
them,  loving  them,  as  simple  as  they  in  faith  and  honest 
endeavor  to  make  the  most  out  of  what  they  found  in 
Attegat. 

The  little  door  of  the  big  barn — how  that  picture  did 
glow  in  the  shadows  of  the  ceiling!  The  big  barn  of  the 
parish  of  Attegat,  where  thrift  and  need  found  a  clearing 
house  that  struck  its  true  balance  for  the  good  of  the 
people ! 

339 


THE    RED    LANE 

The  bishop  caught  the  excitement  of  that  night  of 
couriers.  He  fondled  the  packet  on  his  knee  as  the  old 
man  related  how  the  Pelletiers,  the  Cyrs,  the  Archam- 
beaults,  and  the  Heberts  had  awakened  and  wept  and 
signed  and  prayed. 

And  the  bishop  could  feel  the  eager  wistfulness  of  that 
waiting  people  who  listened  now  for  the  news  which  was 
to  come  from  that  lofty  chamber  of  his  far  down  by  the 
sea,  where  he  leaned  back  and  watched  the  pictures  in 
the  shadows  on  the  ceiling.  An  entirely  new  sense  of 
responsibility  came  to  the  bishop;  it  was  a  thrill  of 
authority,  almost.  That  isolated  country  of  the  border! 
He  had  almost  forgotten  how  great  was  his  power  to 
make  or  to  mar. 

"Go  on,  my  son,"  he  murmured,  when  Anaxagoras 
paused.  "I  have  much  to  learn." 

And  then  he  heard  the  story  of  the  disputed  lands,  the 
tale  of  the  crowded  farms,  as  narrow  in  these  days  as 
lanes.  There  were  sad  pictures  in  the  shadows — creak 
ing  wagons  loaded  with  poor  treasures  of  despoiled  homes, 
and  women  and  children  following,  weeping,  behind  the 
wagons  like  mourners  plodding  after  the  hearse  that  held 
their  hopes. 

Ah,  then  the  bishop  murmured  as  he  listened,  and  the 
wrinkles  deepened  in  his  forehead. 

"Wait  one  moment,  my  good  son,"  he  commanded, 
and  he  rang  a  bell. 

Along  the  hush  of  the  corridor  without  came  heels 
striding  sturdily.  It  was  Father  Callahan  who  en 
tered. 

"Listen  to  this  man — what  he  says  of  the  land  of  Atte- 
gat.  Go  on,  my  son." 

The  fiddler  obeyed. 

There  was  an  end  at  last. 
340 


WHAT   THE    BISHOP    SAW 

The  bishop  lowered  his  eyes  from  the  ceiling  and  came 
forward  to  the  edge  of  his  great  chair. 

"I  have  not  understood  all  of  this  affair  till  now,"  he 
said.  "There  is  a  solemn  duty  ahead  of  us.  Out  of  the 
mouths  of  children  cometh  wisdom — but  the  listener  must 
be  wise  to  understand." 

His  face  was  stern. 

He  revolved  his  chair  slowly  until  it  faced  his  desk. 
He  drew  paper  to  him,  dipped  his  pen,  and  made  the 
cross  at  the  head  of  the  sheet  with  firm  strokes.  He 
wrote,  and  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  except  the 
scratch-scratch  of  the  pen.  He  signed  and  folded  the 
paper. 

"For  you,  Father  Callahan,"  he  said,  extending  the 
document  to  the  priest.  "It  is  an  order.  Notify  the 
vicar-general  I  have  restored  Father  Leclair  to  his  parish 
— to  the  people  who  need  him." 

Billedeau  wept  silently,  not  knowing  that  he  wept. 
The  tears  fell  upon  the  hands  that  crushed  his  old  hat. 

The  bishop  wrote  again.  He  turned  and  held  the  paper 
toward  the  old  fiddler. 

"For  you,  my  faithful  son.  You  shall  carry  it  home  in 
place  of  the  packet  you  have  brought.  It  tells  your  peo 
ple  that  you  have  done  your  errand  as,  I  believe,  no  other 
man  could  have  done  it,  for  simple  faith  can  move  moun 
tains.  At  least,  it  can  make  a  bishop  see  his  duty." 

The  old  man  stumbled  toward  the  outstretched  hand; 
and  the  bishop  gave  him  his  blessing  as  he  knelt  and  re 
ceived  the  precious  paper. 

"I  place  this  man  in  your  hands,  Father  Callahan.  I 
detail  you  to  perform  the  duty  which  is  plain  and  pressing. 
Go  with  this  man  into  the  north.  He  will  lead  you  to 
Father  Leclair.  I  wish  him  to  receive  the  news  of  his 
restoration  from  your  lips  with  my  blessing.  Father 

23  34i 


THE    RED   LANE 

Leclair  and  this  man  know  the  people.  Go  with  them 
from  end  to  end  of  the  district  where  all  these  troubles 
are  pressing  so  heavily.  Learn  about  these  lands  and 
these  evictions,  and  find  out  the  names  of  the  parties  who 
are  responsible.  Get  information  that  can  be  used  for 
evidence,  and  arrange  for  witnesses.  For  I  shall  go  down 
before  the  next  legislature  and  take  up  the  cause  of  my 
people  in  the  north  with  all  the  power  that  God  may  grant 
to  me  in  my  old  age." 

He  walked  to  the  door  with  Anaxagoras  Billedeau,  his 
hand  on  the  fiddler's  shoulder. 

"Good  night,  and  safe  home  to  you,  my  son,"  he  said, 
gently.  "Be  troubled  no  longer.  Father  Callahan  will 
smooth  all  the  way  for  you  after  this." 


How  did  the  good  Pere  Leclair  come  back  to  Attegat — 
back  to  his  people  and  his  stone  house  and  his  gar 
den? 

There  were  scenes  that  day  such  as  Attegat  will  not 
soon  forget — gay  scenes,  pathetic  scenes! 

The  long  street  of  the  village  with  the  haze  of  dust 
above  the  heads  of  the  people — for  the  word  has  gone  on 
in  advance  of  the  little  priest,  and  the  wheels  of  the  flock 
ing  buckboards  have  been  rattling  along  right  vigorously 
as  the  Norman  horses  pattered  their  way  to  town! 

The  massing  throngs,  faces  alight  and  tongues  chat 
tering! 

Swirl  and  sway  of  elbowing  groups ! 

Children  with  arms  heaped  high  with  trailing  ever 
green,  and  women  hurrying  feverishly  to  finish  the  rude 
arch  of  welcome  under  which  the  priest  must  ride. 

Notary  Pierre  Gendreau,  on  the  steps  of  his  office,  peer 
ing  toward  the  brow  of  the  long  hill  and  wiping  the  moist 
ure  from  his  spectacles  as  often  as  he  peers,  for  fear  that 

342 


WHAT   THE    BISHOP    SAW 

his  eyesight  may  miss  the  first  hint  of  that  for  which  he 
is  looking. 

Representative  Clifford,  by  the  notary's  side,  meditat 
ing  on  the  news  of  the  bishop's  interest  in  the  matter  of 
the  lands,  and  acknowledging  again  that  God  knows  the 
details  of  His  own  business  best. 

And,  on  the  brow  of  the  long  hill,  Norman  Aldrich  and 
Evangeline,  daughter  of  her  people,  waiting  hand  in  hand, 
outposts  of  the  affection  of  devoted  Attegat! 

A  puff  of  white  dust  above  the  trees  on  the  brow  of  the 
hill! 

Father  Leclair  has  come  home! 

Off  with  the  hats! 

Pere  Leclair  is  with  his  people  once  more. 

And  Fiddler  Billedeau  played  for  the  flying  feet  that 
evening,  "under  the  orchard  trees  and  down  the  path  to 
the  meadows." 


XXVII 

VETAL   BEAULIEU'S    HIDING-PLACE 


UTUMN  came  to  Attegat  and  lashed  the 
trees  with  the  thongs  of  the  driving  rains. 
The  limbs  were  stripped  bare  and  the 
domed  hills  showed  their  desolate  rocks. 
The  summer  has  consolations  for  the 
poor.  When  the  skies  were  blue  and  the 
air  was  balmy  and  the  birds  sang,  the  lively  temperaments 
of  Acadia  rose  above  their  troubles.  They  who  had  been 
driven  from  their  homes  in  the  clearings  to  the  crowded 
houses  of  the  river-valley  had  a  bit  of  hope  and  all  of 
outdoors  to  cheer  them.  And  the  puissant  priest  from 
far  away,  the  father  who  was  near  the  great  bishop,  had 
been  among  them  and  had  promised  intercession. 

But  when  the  rains  beat  upon  the  windows  of  the  little 
houses,  and  the  eaves  wept  all  night  long,  and  the  women 
and  the  children  could  not  stir  abroad,  and  the  men 
damply  hugged  the  kitchen  fires  in  the  crowded  houses, 
then  the  poor  folk  sat  with  elbows  on  their  knees  and 
were  sad.  There  had  been  plenty  of  room  when  the  sum 
mer  invited  out-of-doors.  But  the  houses  in  the  river- 
valley  were  too  full  when  all  were  forced  to  seek  refuge 
from  the  weather. 

There  had  not  been  time  to  build  other  houses — there 
was  no  land  where  other  houses  could  be  built.  The 
tyrants  of  the  timber-lands  were  unrelenting.  And  hopes 
grew  dull  under  the  dull  skies. 

344 


BEAULIEU'S    HIDING-PLACE 

Through  the  clouds  their  sun  of  joy  had  shone  in  one 
glorious  burst  of  radiance.  Not  soon  would  they  forget 
the  return  of  the  good  Father  Leclair!  But  Father  Le- 
clair  was  now  waiting  and  hoping  like  the  rest  of  his  peo 
ple.  To  be  sure,  he  could  see  farther  than  they.  The 
plans  of  Representative  Clifford  and  the  glowing  expecta 
tions  of  Norman  Aldrich,  more  roseate  after  he  had  come 
back  from  a  conference  with  his  lawyer  friend,  heartened 
the  little  priest;  Father  Callahan's  visit  and  interest  and 
the  determination  of  the  bishop  to  take  action  in  behalf 
of  his  people  of  far  Attegat  seemed  a  promise  that  had  a 
touch  of  divine  intercession  in  it.  But  the  poor  people 
were  suffering.  Winter  was  heralded  by  the  sough  of  the 
leafless  branches  and  the  roar  of  the  autumn  rains;  and 
many  men  had  been  obliged  to  leave  their  little  crops  to 
wither  and  mold  in  the  forest's  clearings. 

Father  Leclair  walked  on  the  brown  grass  beside  his 
garden-plot,  his  old  hound  at  his  heels,  and  heard  the  wind 
whistle  through  the  stumps  of  stalks  and  dead  herbage, 
gazed  at  the  little  door  of  the  big  barn,  and  wondered 
whether  the  resources  of  his  clearing-house  would  endure 
through  the  dark  days  which  were  pressing  upon  them. 

Lonesome  indeed  was  the  aspect  of  the  gaunt,  stark 
chimneys  which  marked  where  the  big  school  once  loomed 
so  grandly. 

It  was  good  to  know  that  the  bishop  now  understood 
better  what  that  school  had  stood  for  in  Attegat  and  what 
it  proposed  to  stand  for.  The  word  which  had  come  to 
Pere  Leclair  from  the  bishop  was  comforting. 

But  the  plight  of  the  school  when  the  rains  came  and 
the  trees  were  stripped  was  sad  when  one  loved  the  chil 
dren  and  understood  what  they  needed. 

The  little  town-house  was  crowded  by  those  who  toiled 
with  the  tools  and  were  learning  the  trades.  A  room  here 

345 


THE    RED    LANE 

and  there  in  a  home  was  loaned,  and  dusty  garrets  were 
swept  and  garnished  for  the  use  of  Master  Donham's 
pupils.  But  the  school  missed  that  happy  and  impelling 
spirit  of  fraternity  and  co-operation  which  had  marked 
the  days  in  the  great  new  building  on  the  hill.  Repre 
sentative  Clifford  wondered  whether  he  would  be  able  to 
convince  another  legislature  that  Attegat  was  still  de 
serving.  He  shared  Master  Donham's  convictions  as  to 
the  origin  of  that  fire;  but  the  incendiaries  had  covered 
their  trail  and  kept  their  secret  well.  It  would  make  the 
begging  for  more  money  a  harder  task  while  those  who 
had  destroyed  remained  unpunished;  the  representative 
worried  over  the  situation  and  vainly  delved  for  con 
clusive  evidence. 

But  there  was  another  mystery  of  the  border  that  was 
more  ominous,  more  puzzling. 

Where  was  Vetal  Beaulieu,  of  Monarda? 

On  that  grim  day  of  the  legislative  convention  men  had 
whispered  a  sinister  question  in  the  ear  of  Norman  Al- 
drich. 

In  those  later  days  of  bleak  autumn  the  question 
"Where  is  Vetal  Beaulieu?"  was  not  whispered  on  the 
border.  The  query  ran  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Men 
asked  it  of  each  other  in  tavern,  at  church,  in  store,  and 
when  they  met  on  the  highway. 

All  up  and  down  the  border  little  hoards  of  money  were 
tucked  away  in  clock-case  or  in  cupboard's  cranny,  wait 
ing  for  the  call  of  Vetal  Beaulieu,  who  was  wont  to  dun 
his  debtors  and  would  not  accept  excuses  or  delays.  But 
Vetal  Beaulieu  did  not  appear  to  demand!  Men  with 
money  in  their  fists,  worrying  over  their  debts,  knocked 
vainly  on  the  door  of  the  house  in  Monarda  clearing. 

Norman  Aldrich  had  knocked  there  oftener  than  any 
one  else.  He  was  seeking  Vetal  for  that  man's  talk ;  but 

346 


BEAULIEU'S    HIDING-PLACE 

most  of  all  he  was  urgent  for  the  sake  of  Evangeline,  wist 
ful  and  anxious  in  the  north,  grieving  over  the  memory 
of  that  bitter  night  when  she  had  seen  her  father  for  the 
last  time.  During  many  hours  of  meditation  she  had  re 
viewed  her  attitude  toward  her  father.  He  had  been 
harsh,  unreasoning,  and  obstinate;  but  the  injury  must 
be  grave,  indeed,  that  a  girl  cannot  forgive  in  a  father. 
In  her  remorse,  because  her  woman's  better  nature  had 
forced  her  to  be  undutiful,  she  pleaded  her  father's  cause 
before  her  heart's  tribunal ;  and,  as  the  days  went  on,  she 
longed  more  and  more  earnestly  to  go  to  him  and  prove 
that  she  loved  him. 

But  the  door  of  Beaulieu's  Place  was  not  opened  to 
Aldrich's  knock  when  he  went  as  envoy  for  Evangeline 
and  pleader  for  his  own  cause. 

The  padlock  had  rusted  in  the  autumn  rains.  Those 
rains  had  packed  the  dead  leaves  on  the  sill  and  into  the 
door-corners — Nature's  seal  for  a  house  untenanted. 

The  misshapen  man  dodged  in  and  out  of  the  tie-up, 
and  snarled  the  everlasting  answer  that  he  knew  nothing 
about  Vetal  Beaulieu.  His  work,  he  explained,  when 
questions  had  stirred  his  snappy  temper,  was  to  care  for 
the  cattle  and  the  horses  of  Vetal  Beaulieu  and  let  Vetal 
Beaulieu's  other  business  alone. 

Aldrich  searched  long  through  the  country-side  for  the 
sullen  youth  who  had  driven  home  Beaulieu's  horses. 
That  person  must  know  more  than  he  had  revealed.  But 
Aldrich  could  find  no  trace  of  the  youth. 

The  officer  probed  this  case  with  his  thoughts  while 
he  rode  upon  his  business. 

He  was  unwilling  to  believe  that  harm  had  come  to 
Vetal  Beaulieu.  The  anonymous  note  to  Evangeline  and 
the  sneering  whispers  in  his  ear  only  assisted  his  belief 
that  Vetal  Beaulieu  had  gone  in  hiding  for  purposes  of 

347 


THE    RED    LANE 

his  own,  hoping  that  this  bit  of  craft  might  accomplish 
that  in  his  affairs  which  brutal  force  had  failed  to  bring 
about.  Perhaps  he  hoped  that  his  absence  would  soften 
the  rebelliousness  of  his  daughter;  perhaps  he  hoped, 
with  Roi's  connivance,  to  create  trouble  and  suspicion  for 
Aldrich.  The  note  and  the  whispers  would  indicate  that 
sort,  of  a  plot.  It  was  crude  and  clumsy  intrigue,  but 
Beaulieu  had  never  shown  himself  to  be  a  master  of 
craft. 

Beaulieu  had  many  enemies;  threats  against  him  had 
blown  about  the  border  like  thistle-down  on  the  breeze. 
But  Aldrich  did  not  attach  much  weight  to  those  threats 
— he  estimated  them  merely  as  so  much  thistle-down  of 
language — for  the  Gallic  tongue  is  quick  to  threaten  in 
times  of  stress  and  the  hands  are  slow  to  execute  when 
the  sudden  anger  cools.  It  could  not  be  that  violence 
had  been  done  to  this  man.  A  crime  would  have  been 
revealed,  the  officer  was  certain. 

Vetal  Beaulieu  was  hiding  away;  that  was  it! 

But  why  did  he  hide  so  long? 

Aldrich  viewed  the  several  facets  of  the  affair.  Beau- 
lieu  had  been  collecting  money  with  all  his  might  and 
main.  Was  it  not  probable  that  he  had  decided  to  leave 
the  section  for  a  time  until  the  matter  of  the  attempted 
abduction  blew  over?  Beaulieu  was  undoubtedly  away 
giving  the  world  a  bit  of  a  looking-over ;  but  he  truly 
was  staying  away  a  long  time ! 

On  the  other  hand,  Beaulieu  might  be  hiding  nearby 
where  he  could  keep  an  eye  on  affairs;  after  all,  that 
would  be  more  like  Vetal  Beaulieu,  the  officer  decided. 

But  Beaulieu  seemed  to  be  a  long  time  working  out  the 
plot,  whatever  it  was  he  had  planned. 

Aldrich  guessed  one  thing  rightly:  Vetal  Beaulieu  was 
hiding. 

348 


BEAULIEU'S    HIDING-PLACE 

Aldrich  was  correct  in  another  surmise:  Beaulieu  was 
hiding  close  at  hand. 

He  was  patient  in  that  hiding.  In  a  cleft  between  the 
ledges  on  the  top  of  a  hillock,  a  stone's-throw  from  the 
side  of  a  lonesome  road  through  the  woods  to  the  east 
of  Monarda  clearing,  there  was  his  hiding-place. 

The  coppice  at  the  brow  of  the  hillock  was  a  dense 
growth — witch-hobble,  stout  little  shrubs  of  hornbeam 
and  thickly  leaved  moose  wood.  It  shielded  the  cleft  in 
the  ledges.  And  the  cleft  concealed  Vetal  Beaulieu  where 
he  hid. 

He  was  very  quiet  as  well  as  patient  in  that  hiding- 
place.  He  did  not  stir  even  to  count  the  money  that 
stuffed  his  fat  wallet,  nor  to  paw  over  the  notes  and  the 
pledges  of  payment ;  and  that  was  unlike  Vetal  Beaulieu. 
The  weeks  passed,  and  he  did  not  move,  and  he  did  not 
clink  the  coin  in  his  trousers  pocket.  He  did  not  even 
raise  his  hand  to  assure  himself  that  his  fat  wallet  was 
still  safely  buttoned  under  his  coat. 

Yes,  very  quiet  and  very  patient  in  his  hiding-place  in 
the  heart  of  the  thick  coppice  was  Vetal  Beaulieu. 

Then  at  last  came  the  autumn  rains  and  the  winds 
which  tore  away  summer's  gay  draperies. 

For  a  little  while  Beaulieu  was  even  more  securely  hid 
den,  for  the  fallen  leaves  covered  him.  Later  the  leaves 
were  washed  into  the  crannies  of  the  ledge,  and  other 
leaves  grew  sear  and  were  blown  away  by  the  winds  of 
November,  and  then  Vetal  Beaulieu  was  no  longer  hidden. 

One  day  hunters  climbed  the  hillock.  There  were  four 
hunters.  One  of  them  had  urged  the  others  to  mount 
the  little  hill  with  him  in  order  to  scan  the  country  round 
about  for  a  sign  of  deer.  The  three  had  protested  that 
this  was  not  the  right  way  to  hunt  game,  for  the  deer 
would  see  the  hunters  and  be  off.  But  the  one  man  had 

349 


THE    RED    LANE 

insisted  with  peculiar  obstinacy,  and  at  last  the  three 
followed  him. 

He  lagged  behind  when  they  were  near  the  summit, 
near  the  cleft  in  the  ledges,  and  the  three  did  not  observe 
when  he  drew  small  objects  from  his  pocket  and  scattered 
them  on  the  broad  ledge  he  was  crossing.  These  objects 
were  empty  rifle-shells,  three  in  number. 

"My  God!  Here's  a  dead  man!"  shouted  one  of  the 
three  who  were  ahead. 

And  all  of  the  men  hurried  to  the  edge  of  the  cleft  and 
gazed  down  into  the  hiding-place  of  Vetal  Beaulieu. 

But  no  one  of  them  called  him  by  name  as  they  gazed. 
That  dead  man  whose  face  was  a  ghastly  thing  of  brown 
shreds  and  whose  hands  were  fleshless  bore  little  resem 
blance  to  the  publican  of  Beaulieu's  Place,  the  rich  man 
of  Monarda. 

The  fat  wallet  and  the  papers  told  them  who  he  was, 
after  they  had  managed  to  control  their  dread  and  their 
disgust.  The  one  who  had  urged  them  to  come  to  the 
top  of  the  hillock  gingerly  drew  the  wallet  from  the  coat 
and  exposed  its  soggy  contents,  and  then  they  knew  that 
they  had  solved  the  mystery  of  the  absence  of  Vetal 
Beaulieu. 

"He  was  shot,"  averred  the  man  who  held  the  wallet. 
"Here's  the  mark  of  one  bullet  right  through  this  wad 
of  money.  Probably  he  got  more  than  one  bullet  in 
him." 

"Do  you  think  it's  murder?"  gasped  one  of  the  hunters. 
"His  money  hasn't  been  touched." 

"Of  course  it's  murder,"  stated  the  man  with  the  wal 
let.  "There's  a  bigger  reason  for  murdering  a  man  than 
because  you  want  to  rob  him." 

"There  are  men  up  and  down  this  border  who  have 
been  abused  by  him,  have  been  threatening  to  kill  him," 

350 


BEAULIEU'S    HIDING-PLACE 

observed  another.  "The  men  who  owed  him  money 
were  pretty  ugly." 

"There  are  bigger  reasons  for  murdering  a  man  than 
because  you  owe  him  money  and  he  has  dunned  you  to 
pay,"  stated  the  ominous  man  with  the  wallet. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I'm  not  saying  any  more  than  that  just  now.  There 
will  be  plenty  of  time  to  say  things  when  the  coroner  sits, 
or  when  the  testimony  is  called  for  in  court.  One  of  us 
has  got  to  go  for  the  officers.  The  other  three  will  stay 
here  and  hunt  for  clues." 

The  men  questioned  him  with  their  looks. 

"It's  a  little  thing,  sometimes,  that  fastens  murder 
where  it  belongs.  Let's  see  whether  we  can  find  any 
little  things." 

One  man  volunteered  to  carry  out  the  news  to  the 
settlement — it  would  be  a  choice  bit  of  sensation  to  shout 
in  the  ears  of  horrified  listeners.  He  departed  on  the 
run. 

The  man  who  had  made  himself  captain  led  his  fellows 
about  the  hillock,  to  and  fro. 

"Look  sharp,"  he  kept  advising  them. 

They  came  at  last  to  the  broad  ledge  and  discovered 
the  empty  shells. 

"They're  out  of  the  rifle  of  the  skunk  who  did  that 
dirty  job,"  affirmed  the  leader.  He  joggled  them  care 
fully  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  "These  cinch  it,"  he  said. 
"You  all  take  careful  note  that  these  shells  were  found 
here.  I'm  going  to  seal  them  up  here  and  now  in  this 
envelope — and  it's  lucky  I  happened  to  have  one."  He 
sealed  them  and  marked  with  a  lead-pencil  across  the 
flap  of  the  envelope. 

One  of  the  men  watched  him  with  interest  and  with  a 
frown  of  bewilderment. 


THE    RED   LANE 

"They're  nothing  but  empty  shells — I  don't  see  how 
they  prove  anything?" 

The  other  looked  up  from  his  crisscrossing  of  the  en 
velope's  flap. 

"I  thought  you  had  owned  a  rifle  long  enough  so  that 
you  knew  something  that  any  gun-man  ought  to  know," 
he  snapped.  "Don't  you  know  that  no  two  firing-pins 
ever  make  the  same  mark  on  a  shell  ?  An  expert  can  take 
a  microscope  and  tell  you  in  a  jiffy  whether  my  rifle  fired 
that  bullet  or  your  rifle — or  the  rifle  of  some  other  fellow. 
A  few  men  along  this  border  will  be  called  on  to  show  a 
sample  of  the  mark  their  firing-pin  makes,"  he  added, 
grimly.  "They're  mighty  small  marks  on  these  shells 
in  here,  gents!"  He  shook  the  envelope  at  them.  "But 
they're  big  enough  to  put  the  noose  around  a  man's  neck. 
They  hang  murderers  on  this  side  of  the  boundary." 

He  led  them  back  to  the  edge  of  the  grisly  hiding-place 
of  Vetal  Beaulieu.  They  waited  in  gloomy  silence  for 
the  return  of  their  messenger  and  the  officers  of  the 
law. 

That  night  Vetal  Beaulieu  was  back  in  his  home  once 
more.  Men  forced  the  padlock  and  burst  into  the  broad 
room  and  removed  the  liquors  from  the  truck  and  laid 
thereon  the  body  of  the  owner  of  the  place,  for  the  coroner 
had  ordered  an  autopsy  upon  that  which  remained  of 
Vetal  Beaulieu's  body,  and  the  truck  was  the  table  the 
physicians  chose. 

When  they  had  done  with  him  and  had  gone  he  slept 
there  on  the  truck  whose  wheels  straddled  the  line  between 
two  countries.  They  locked  him  in  and  left  him  there. 
This  shapeless  thing  under  the  blanket  had  been  Vetal 
Beaulieu,  who  for  long  years  had  stood  beside  that  truck 
taking  money  with  his  hands  wet  with  liquors.  But  when 
the  mice  came  out  of  the  crannies  in  the  walls  and 

352 


BEAULIEU'S    HIDING-PLACE 

poked  their  inquisitive  noses  among  the  litter  on  the 
floor,  Vetal  Beaulieu  did  not  arise  and  stamp  about  and 
frighten  them,  as  he  had  done  that  night  of  his  vigil  when 
Evangeline  came  home.  He  was  as  still  as  he  had  been 
in  his  hiding-place  all  the  months.  The  November  wind 
searched  the  room,  blowing  through  the  cracked  panels 
of  the  door  where  men  had  broken  the  wood  in  gain 
ing  entrance,  but  Vetal  did  not  shiver  under  his 
blanket. 

He  slept  at  home  once  more  while  the  tongues  raged 
with  the  tidings  of  his  murder,  rioted  and  rattled  all 
up  and  down  the  border;  and  Rumor  stalked  bigger  and 
blacker  and  more  bodeful  as  it  traversed  the  country  to 
and  fro;  and  its  wavering  finger  began  to  point  more 
steadily,  more  menacingly  at  one  man,  the  man  who  had 
pursued  Vetal  Beaulieu  most  persistently,  the  man  whom 
Vetal  Beaulieu  hated  most  virulently,  the  man  who  loved 
Vetal  Beaulieu's  daughter,  but  to  whom  Beaulieu  had 
denied  her  with  all  the  bitterness  of  his  soul. 

So  the  news  of  the  finding  of  Vetal  Beaulieu  came  into 
the  country  to  the  ears  of  Evangeline,  his  daughter,  dole 
ful,  dreadful,  agonizing  news.  Her  grief  was  the  more 
bitter  because  it  lacked  those  consolations  that  mark 
mourning  for  one  who  has  been  near  and  dear  and  gener 
ous  and  loving — for  mourning  then  has  only  love  to  re 
member  and  trust  to  look  back  upon.  And  above  her 
grief  brooded  something  sinister;  she  did  not  understand 
exactly  what  it  was;  she  would  not  admit  that  she  thought 
again  upon  the  poisonous  suggestions  of  the  anonymous 
note.  But  through  and  through  her  grief  that  vile  slander 
threaded  itself.  It  gave  to  her  sorrow  a  keener  pang,  for 
it  smirched  something  that  should  be  holy — the  grieving 
of  a  daughter  for  a  father. 

She  was  speeding  south  toward  Monarda,  Norman 

353 


THE    RED    LANE 

Aldrich  her  charioteer,  Madame  Ouillette  her  comforter 
and  her  chaperon.  Aldrich  had  hastened  to  her  with  car 
riage  and  swift  horses,  eager  to  perform  this  service,  to 
watch  over  her  safety,  and  to  soothe  her  by  his  presence 
and  his  words. 


XXVIII 

FOR   THE    KILLING   OF   VETAL   BEAULIEU 

T  first  Notary  Pierre  Gendreau  wagged 
his  head  in  deprecating  refusal,  wiped  his 
horn  spectacles  nervously,  and  said  that 
he  could  not. 

But  Evangeline  pleaded. 
Ah,  it  was  not  the  task  for  an  old  man ! 
So  demurred  Notary  Pierre. 

Yes,  but  it  was  a  task  for  an  honest  man!  So  insisted 
the  maiden. 

Notary  Pierre  blinked  at  her,  pitying  her,  knowing 
what  meant  those  circles  under  her  eyes,  understanding 
the  anguished  trials  that  had  met  her  in  the  south  when 
she  had  gone  hurriedly  to  face  the  horror  of  Vetal  Beau- 
lieu's  undoing. 

"I  left  all  as  it  was.  I  am  only  a  girl,  Notary  Pierre. 
I  do  not  understand.  I  wish  to  place  everything  in  your 
hands." 

Yes,  all  that  tangled  skein  of  business,  of  usury,  of 
money  in  store  and  money  loaned,  all  which  Vetal  Beau- 
lieu's  hands  had  dropped  so  suddenly !  The  notary  wiped 
his  spectacles  more  vigorously.  He  pondered,  and  he  was 
afraid. 

"I  have  put  my  hand  on  nothing — I  could  not,"  she 
gasped.  "I  cannot  tell  you  why,  Notary  Pierre.  I  am 
trying  to  be  just  in  my  thoughts  to  a  father  who  is  dead. 
But  I  could  not  touch  that  money.  You  must  take  it 

355 


THE    RED    LANE 

into  your  hands — all  the  business.  For  it  must  be  set 
tled — it  is  the  law,  and  you  know  what  the  law  commands." 

In  the  end  his  sympathy  overcame  his  dread  of  touching 
the  sordid  affairs  of  the  rich  man  of  Monarda.  So  Evan- 
geline  went  back  to  her  scholars,  and  Notary  Gendreau 
journeyed  south  to  examine,  to  probe,  to  docket,  to  carry 
out  the  commands  of  the  law  in  regard  to  estates,  to  put 
his  notarial  seal  on  the  door  of  Beaulieu's  Place,  and  to 
bring  legal  order  out  of  the  confusion  of  the  dead  man's 
affairs. 

But,  though  he  probed  and  examined  and  docketed 
faithfully,  no  word  came  to  Notary  Gendreau  of  that  will 
of  Vetal  Beaulieu's,  which  had  been  tucked  away  in  the 
safe  of  Bullhead  Cyr. 

Evangeline  was  the  heir,  the  sole  heir  of  a  man  who  had 
died  intestate,  according  to  the  belief  of  the  notary  and 
the  country-side ;  and  if  there  were  others  who  knew  dif 
ferently  those  others  held  their  peace. 

One  day  after  his  return  from  the  south  the  notary  saw 
Norman  Aldrich  in  the  village  street  of  Attegat.  He 
called  to  the  young  man,  led  him  into  his  office,  and  locked 
the  door. 

"I  have  heard  many  strange  things  in  the  south  where 
I  have  been  probing  and  examining,"  said  the  old 
man.  "One  thing  I  have  heard  is  dreadful.  Perhaps  I 
should  not  speak  of  it,  M'ser.  But  you  must  not  think  I 
mean  to  offer  insult.  I  am  too  much  your  good  friend  to 
do  that.  But,  being  your  friend,  I  feel  that  I  must  speak, 
must  warn,  must  advise  you  to  guard  yourself  against  a 
great  wrong.  I  talk  to  you  of  rumor."  He  wagged  his 
head.  "Wicked  rumor,  M'ser." 

"What  is  the  rumor?"  asked  the  officer.  The  grave 
mien  of  the  notary  impressed  him. 

The  notary  pondered  a  long  time  before  he  replied.  He 
356 


FOR  THE   KILLING  OF  BEAULIEU 

seemed  to  be  trying  to  approach  the  subject  from  a  tact 
ful  angle. 

"You  had  trouble  with  the  dead  man,  Vetal  Beaulieu, 
eh?" 

"Yes,  I  must  admit  that,  sir." 

"That  trouble  was  talked  of  much  along  the  border. 
It  was  known  by  many  that  you  were  pursuing  him.  That 
is  true,  is  it  not?" 

' '  I  searched  for  him  week  after  week — hunted  the  bor 
der  up  and  down.  I  made  no  secret  of  that  search." 

"Did  you  find  him — see  him?" 

"No  sir,  not  after  that  night  when  I  saved  Evangeline 
from  that  devil  of  a  Roi." 

"There  were  shots  fired  then,  eh?  Pere  Leclair  has 
told  me  so." 

"I  did  fire.  Some  person  fired  first.  I  was  protecting 
her  and  myself.  But  I  fired  at  random — to  frighten 
them  away." 

The  notary  rubbed  his  nose. 

"You  did  not  know  where  the  shots  went,  eh?" 

"It  was  in  the  night." 

"There  was  no  other  time  when  shots  were  fired?" 

Aldrich  paled.  The  body  of  Vetal  Beaulieu  had  been 
found  in  a  coppice  to  the  east  of  Monarda.  He  had 
ridden  on  that  road  one  night.  He  had  seen  horsemen. 
He  had  shouted  and  asked  for  Vetal  Beaulieu.  He  had 
been  fired  on.  In  uncontrollable  wrath  he  had  replied 
with  his  rifle  to  that  wanton  attack  on  himself. 

He  told  that  story  to  Notary.  Pierre,  hiding  nothing, 
glossing  nothing;  but  his  soul  was  sick  within  him  as  he 
put  into  words  what  he  realized  must  be  a  dreadful 
weapon  when  placed  in  the  possession  of  rumor  and 
suspicion. 

"I  may  speak — I  must  speak,"  said  Notary  Gendreau, 
24  357 


THE   RED   LANE 

when  Aldrich  had  finished.  "It  has  been  written  that 
Rumor  is  a  foul  bird.  But  I  call  Rumor,  which  an  enemy 
trains,  a  snake,  and  it  bites  the  unwary  from  behind. 
M'ser  Aldrich,  I  do  not  know  what  mark  your  bullet 
found  that  night  on  the  road  east  of  Monarda.  Perhaps  it 
did  not  find  any  mark  except  a  tree.  But  this  I  do  know. 
The  men  who  found  the  body  of  Vetal  Beaulieu  found 
empty  shells  from  a  rifle  near  by.  It  is  said  by  men  who 
understand  firearms  that  exploded  shells  have  a  distinc 
tive  mark,  that  the  firing-pin  of  every  rifle  makes  its  own 
individual  nick." 

"That  is  true,  Notary  Pierre.     I  understand  firearms." 

"Rumor  says  that  those  shells  have  been  sent  away  to 
the  experts,  and  that  men  on  this  border  will  be  called 
on  to  furnish  marks  of  the  firing-pins  of  their  rifles  for 
comparison.  Some  person,  M'ser,  is  spending  much  money 
to  hire  experts,  to  secure  evidence  for  the  courts.  I  have 
heard  all  that.  I  have  felt  it  to  be  my  duty  to  tell  you." 

"But  I  did  not  leave  the  highway  that  night,  Notary 
Pierre.  I  sat  on  my  horse  and  fired,  and  the  horse  ran 
with  me.  The  shells  were  jacked  onto  the  road.  I  was 
not  in  the  woods  near  the  hillock  where  they  found  Vetal 
Beaulieu." 

"But  men  who  have  much  money  and  great  hatred 
and  can  hire  witnesses  and  experts  and  arrange  a  plot 
and  manufacture  evidence — those  men  can  make  the  acts 
of  an  innocent  man  look  very  black,  M'ser.  I  have 
studied  the  law;  I  have  heard  of  many  horrors  wrought 
by  circumstantial  evidence.  I  tell  you  all  this  for  your 
warning." 

Aldrich  grew  white  to  his  lips. 

Accused  of  the  murder  of  Evangeline's  father? 

It  had  not  come  to  that  yet.  But  his  quick  fears  leaped 
to  the  consciousness  of  what  all  this  might  mean. 

358 


FOR  THE   KILLING  OF   BEAULIEU 

Accused  of  compassing  Vetal  Beaulieu's  death  by  the 
accident  of  a  random  bullet? 

Even  if  intent  were  not  ascribed  to  him  his  situation 
was  damnable.  He  sagged  down  in  his  chair,  horror  and 
fear  on  his  countenance. 

"One  of  the  men  who  found  the  body  is  a  man  who 
works  for  David  Roi,"  the  notary  went  on.  "You  should 
know  all.  You  must  protect  yourself,  M'ser." 

The  officer  had  agonizing  realization  of  what  a  coil 
surrounded  him,  when  circumstances  were  considered. 

Jack  Hebert  had  spoken  warning  truth  far  back  on 
that  June  night  in  Bois-de-Rancourt  clearing,  when  love 
had  first  broken  into  full  bloom  and  Vetal  Beaulieu  had 
attempted  so  ruthlessly  to  uproot  it.  There  had  been 
threats  and  defiance  then.  He  had  scattered  his  empty 
rifle-shells  recklessly  since  that  meeting — he  had  fired 
recklessly.  He  could  not  stand  before  a  tribunal  and 
swear  that  he  had  not  killed  Vetal  Beaulieu,  though  it 
was  plain  from  what  the  notary  had  said  that  enemies 
had  employed  subtle  means  to  bring  the  thing  closer 
home  to  him. 

He  staggered  to  his  feet  and  spoke  his  gratitude  to  the 
notary  as  best  he  could.  He  did  not  protest  his  innocence. 
Down  in  his  consciousness  there  lurked  horrible  doubt  of 
himself. 

He  could  not  carry  that  hellish,  distracted  doubt  to 
Evangeline  in  her  woe,  even  though  he  went  to  her  to 
protest  his  innocence  in  intent. 

He  rushed  to  Representative  Clifford. 

"Notary  Pierre  is  right,"  said  the  patriarch,  when  he 
had  listened.  "You  have  got  to  protect  yourself,  my  boy. 
Roi  is  the  chap  who  is  spending  money  on  this  thing.  If 
he  can't  get  the  girl  himself,  he  reckons  you  won't  be 
able  to  get  her,  either,  after  he  has  plastered  this  dirty 

359 


THE    RED    LANE 

mess  onto  you.  It's  bad,  Aldrich!  We  might  as  well 
look  the  thing  right  square  in  the  eye.  A  girl  can  do  a 
lot  of  things  for  love  of  a  man,  but  I  don't  believe  Evan- 
geline  Beaulieu  is  the  sort  to  marry  you  in  the  face  and 
eyes  of  this  thing.  She's  the  kind  who  would  let  her 
heart  break  first.  You  get  'outside'  to  the  city  as  quick 
as  horse's  legs  and  steam  can  get  you  there.  Put  your 
case  in  the  hands  of  your  lawyer  chum.  You  have  got 
a  fight  ahead  of  you — as  nasty  a  fight  as  a  man  ever 
bucked  into." 

Rumor  ran  with  Aldrich  as  he  galloped  down  the  border. 

His  horse  could  not  distance  it.  Men  stared  at  him  in 
queer  fashion.  They  buzzed  behind  his  back. 

He  came  north  again  to  his  station  through  the  snows, 
after  a  time,  to  face  the  rumor.  He  had  no  intention  of 
lowering  his  eyes  before  it. 

The  keen  mind  of  his  friend,  after  their  long  and  anxious 
conferences,  had  been  able  to  afford  him  one  ray  of  hope. 

"Look  here,  Norman,"  he  had  said,  "the  body  of  that 
man  lay  there  for  many  weeks,  exposed  to  the  elements. 
So  did  those  rifle-shells,  providing  they  were  shells  of  the 
man  who  did  the  shooting.  We'll  wait  for  the  prosecu 
tion  to  produce  those  shells.  We've  got  to  wait.  But  in 
the  mean  time  we'll  have  some  experts  of  our  own  on  the 
job.  For,  don't  you  see,  while  the  weather  was  shredding 
that  man's  body  the  elements  were  oxidizing  the  brass 
of  those  shells  ?  We'll  have  shells  exposed  to  the  elements. 
I'll  wager  that  it  can  be  shown  that  oxidation  will  eat  all 
traces  of  a  firing-pin  mark  off  the  brass  of  a  shell." 

He  had  clapped  his  hand  on  Aldrich's  bowed  shoulder. 

"It's  a  plant,  Norman!  I  believe  we  can  expose  it 
when  the  right  time  comes.  But  we'll  have  to  wallow 
through  some  slime.  Brace  up  to  it.  Ask  the  girl  to 
stand  firm.  I'm  afraid  they've  got  enough  evidence  for 

360 


FOR  THE   KILLING  OF  BEAULIEU 

an  indictment.  Nerve  yourself  to  endure  it  if  it  comes. 
Just  reflect  that  if  it  isn't  settled  now  and  settled  finally, 
the  stain  of  it  will  always  stay  with  you.  But  we'll  wipe 
the  blood  off  your  character!  I'm  with  you.  We'll  rip 
the  inside  of  things  open  on  that  border  before  we're 
done!" 

But  Rumor  met  him  on  the  border  and  went  with  him 
to  the  north  through  the  snows.  Rumor  was  now  more 
menacing,  more  definite,  for  the  tongues  had  been  long 
at  work.  Those  who  were  preparing  the  plot  were  taking 
their  time  in  forging  it;  no  man  strode  to  him  to  lay  hand 
on  his  shoulder  and  say,  "Come  with  me  and  answer  to 
the  charge  of  killing  Vetal  Beaulieu." 

He  had  resolved  upon  one  course  of  action  in  those 
days  of  waiting  in  desperate  anxiety  under  the  suspended 
sword;  he  would  act  a  chivalrous  and  conscientious  part 
toward  Evangeline  Beaulieu  during  that  bitter  period  of 
heart's  stress.  He  sent  Pere  Leclair  to  the  girl  with  the 
message  of  his  resolve.  Until  he  could  come  to  her,  freed 
from  this  terrible  thing  which  rumor  flaunted  over  his 
head,  he  would  keep  away;  he  would  not  give  peering 
eyes  and  wagging  tongues  opportunity  to  soil  her  with 
the  evil  that  was  upon  him.  Her  present  woe  was  griev 
ous  enough  without  that  added  shameful  taunt  that  she 
had  condoned  the  act  of  the  slayer  of  her  father  before 
that  man's  innocence  had  been  shown  to  the  world. 

He  felt  that  he  could  not  go  to  her  then,  even  to  tell 
her  how  certain  he  was  that  his  hands  were  free  of  the  blood 
of  Vetal  Beaulieu.  It  would  be  requiring  from  her  a  faith 
and  a  sacrifice  he  had  no  right  to  ask  at  that  time. 

Into  the  ears  of  sympathetic  Pere  Leclair  he  poured 
his  troubles,  his  doubts,  his  hopes,  his  devotion  to  the 
girl  whom  he  loved;  and  the  little  priest  carried  all  to 
her. 

361 


THE    RED    LANE 

He  brought  back  a  message  that  made  Aldrich's  eyes 
fill  and  his  heart  glow;  and  then  he  went  forth  to  do  his 
duty  and  to  wait. 

The  despondency  that  weighed  upon  Norman  Aldrich 
during  those  bleak  weeks  of  winter  was  a  part  of  the  woe 
that  settled  on  all  the  land  of  Attegat.  That  woe  weighed 
on  the  people  as  heavily  as  the  snows  of  that  winter 
weighed  on  the  landscape.  There  were  never  before  such 
snows !  The  gray  clouds  banked  and  delivered  the  grist  the 
heavens  ground.  The  sun  would  wade  for  a  day  or  so  and 
shed  wan  light,  and  then  down  came  more  snow,  falling 
heavily,  piling  high,  covering  the  fences  of  the  narrow 
farms,  blocking  roads  and  thatching  the  roofs  of  the  little 
houses  until  the  windows  of  the  gables  resembled  the  eyes 
of  old  men  peering  out  from  under  gigantic  perukes. 

The  little  houses  were  crowded  still.  The  women  and 
the  children  of  the  despoiled  homes  were  there.  The  men 
had  gone  away,  seeking  work  in  the  woods.  Their 
families  remained  behind  as  sorrowful  as  widows  and 
orphans,  for  in  all  the  years  past  there  had  been  comfort 
of  companionship  of  united  families  through  all  the  win 
ters — cozy  homes,  well-stocked  cellars,  and  the  joys  of 
the  nights  by  the  firesides.  But  now  the  fathers  and  sons 
vere  expatriated  to  the  lumber  camps  for  the  long  months 
— for  the  mouths  must  be  fed. 

In  the  dead  of  the  winter  Aldrich  made  another  trip 
to  the  world  outside.  The  legislature  was  in  session,  and 
he  had  held  himself  in  readiness  for  the  call  from  Repre 
sentative  Clifford.  It  came,  and  he  hurried  to  the  State's 
Capitol. 

The  land  bill  had  been  introduced.  It  asked  that  the 
State  take  note  of  the  fact  that  there  was  danger  that  the 
citizenship  of  the  commonwealth  was  about  to  lose  hun 
dreds  of  worthy  men  who  had  developed  the  wilderness, 

362 


FOR   THE   KILLING  OF   BEAULIEU 

had  been  sturdy  and  honest  pioneers,  and  who  desired  to 
remain  on  the  acres  they  had  reclaimed.  The  bill  pro 
vided  that  the  State  should  purchase  the  lands,  make 
good  the  disputed  titles,  and  assure  homes  to  these  peo 
ple  who  had  worked  hard  and  who  deserved  this  service 
from  the  State.  The  bishop  of  the  diocese  was  there  at 
the  hearing  before  the  committee.  He  raised  earnest 
voice  in  behalf  of  his  people  of  the  far  north.  Aldrich 
pleaded  with  all  his  young  man's  earnestness  and  elo 
quence.  This  stalwart  chap  with  the  clear  eyes  and  the 
ringing  voice  won  fame  that  day.  He  produced  a  profound 
impression,  and  men  hastened  to  him  and  shook  his  hand. 

But  that  was  a  tribute  the  lawmakers  paid  to  him  and 
his  personality,  not  to  the  cause  he  advocated. 

It  was  such  unheard  sort  of  legislation! 

Was  it  constitutional;  was  it  this,  was  it  that? 

And  had  not  these  people  been  in  a  state  of  rebellion 
for  some  months?  Was  there  not  pretty  good  reason  for 
believing  that  the  State's  big  school  had  been  fired  by 
Acadian  incendiaries? 

Aldrich  and  his  friends  discovered  that  numerous  fur 
tive  and  crafty  agencies  were  at  work.  The  lawmakers 
whom  he  besought  in  lobby  and  hotel  displayed  hesitancy, 
doubt,  obstinacy. 

And  at  last  he  ran  against  an  obstacle  which  proved 
that  the  foes  of  the  bill  were  clever  and  unscrupulous  and 
masters  of  the  art  of  controlling  legislation.  By  some 
agency  it  was  pounded  into  the  heads  of  the  lawmakers 
that  this  whole  scheme  was  an  indirect  attempt  of  the 
rich  timber  syndicate  to  unload  lands  onto  the  State  at 
a  good  price. 

"We'd  better  withdraw  the  bill  from  the  committee, 
Norman,"  his  lawyer  friend  advised.  "We'll  say  that 
we  wish  to  make  a  new  draft  and  embody  some  revisions. 

363 


THE    RED    LANE 

But  unless  we  get  help  of  another  sort  from  somewhere 
we'd  better  quit  altogether.  They've  got  us  sewed  in 
tight.  You  may  as  well  go  back  to  the  border.  I'll 
keep  you  posted." 

"Even  my  school  resolve  has  been  nailed  to  the  cross — 
and  I'm  afraid  it's  for  keeps,"  mourned  the  patriarch. 
"The  members  of  the  committee  of  education  have  been 
filled  up  with  stories  that  our  poor  folk  are  going  about 
with  knives  between  their  teeth  and  torches  in  their  hands ; 
that  all  the  people  of  Attegat  are  direct  descendants  of 
Robespierre  and  Marat.  Old  Clifford's  Canucks  don't  stand 
very  well  in  these  times,  since  the  liars  have  got  in  their 
fine  work  down  here.  They  are  spending  money  against 
us,  my  boy.  God  sent  us  Evangeline  in  that  pinch ;  but 
in  spite  of  God's  omnipotence  I'm  a  little  doubtful  about 
His  being  able  to  handle  a  State  legislature.  It  isn't  the 
right  sort  of  material  for  Divine  Providence  to  work  on." 

So  Aldrich  went  sadly  back  to  Attegat,  where  snow  and 
troubles  buried  land  and  people. 

He  pondered  upon  the  patriarch's  doleful  sentiments 
regarding  the  possible  agency  of  Providence  in  their  affairs. 
He  saw  little  promise  of  aid  from  any  human  agency. 

As  before,  Rumor  waited  for  him  at  the  border  and  went 
north  with  him.  He  came  to  a  little  tavern  in  a  settle 
ment  beside  the  great  river,  and  sat  before  the  fire  in  the 
dim  room  where  loafers  whittled  and  gossiped  the  long 
evening  through. 

A  man  had  been  waiting  for  the  return  of  Aldrich  from 
the  south.  This  man  followed  him  to  the  little  tavern, 
for  Rumor  had  left  her  usual  broad  trail. 

He  stamped  in  from  the  night  outside,  kicking  snow 
from  his  shoes.  He  walked  to  Aldrich  and  tapped  his 
shoulder  and  asked  the  young  man  in  low  tones  to  step 
aside  with  him, 

364 


FOR  THE   KILLING  OF   BEAULIEU 

"I'm  mighty  sorry  to  be  called  to  do  this,"  he  whis 
pered,  hoarsely.  "But  you're  an  officer  yourself.  You 
know  what  officers  have  to  do.  The  papers  have  been 
sent  to  me  from  across  the  line-  I'm  a  sheriff.  A  secret 
indictment  has  been  returned  against  you." 

"You  mean  to  say  that  you — "  gasped  Aldrich. 

"They  seem  to  think  they've  got  something  on  you  in 
that  Beaulieu  case,"  broke  in  the  sheriff,  trying  to  soften 
the  matter  in  an  apologetic  way.  "  Of  course,  I  don't  know 
anything  about  it.  I'm  simply  ordered  to  arrest  and 
bring  you  to  the  line.  We'll  stay  here  to-night  and  get 
away  to-morrow.  You  see,  I'm  all  for  making  it  as  easy 
as  I  can  for  you.  Just  give  me  your  word  as  one  officer 
to  another." 

"I  will  be  ready  for  you  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Sheriff," 
he  returned,  twitching  his  shoulders  back,  for  he  felt 
suddenly  as  though  he  were  about  to  faint.  One  may 
look  forward  to  a  horror  and  expect  to  meet  it  bravely; 
but  one  may  not  always  meet  it  unflinchingly  when  it 
shoves  its  dread  front  before  the  eyes. 

Till  then,  after  all,  that  growling  rumor  had  been  word 
less,  a  menacing  grumble  that  had  followed  the  report 
of  the  coroner's  inquest,  which  had  charged  the  murder 
of  Vetal  Beaulieu  to  a  person  or  persons  unknown.  But 
now,  with  the  sanction  of  the  law,  rumor  would  shout  his 
name  in  clarion  tones.  Evangeline  in  the  north  must 
hear  that  cry. 

He  turned  from  the  sheriff  and  groped  his  way  out  of  the 
tavern  office,  dreading  the  aspect  of  the  faces  of  humankind. 

In  his  room  he  put  his  face  on  his  pillow  and  wept — 
wept  such  tears  as  are  forced  from  strong  men  who  realize 
that  what  they  are  suffering  is  a  part  of  the  suffering  that 
has  come  to  others  who  are  innocent  and  whom  they  can 
not  aid, 

365 


THE    RED    LANE 

The  roof  of  the  little  tavern  was  just  above  his  head. 

In  the  silence  of  the  night  he  heard  other  weeping ! 

It  was  soft  at  first,  a  queer,  dull  throbbing  on  the 
thick  pack  of  snow  on  the  tavern  roof. 

The  heavens  were  weeping,  too. 

Those  tears  lashed  the  windows  and  thudded  on  the 
snow  of  the  roof. 

After  a  time,  with  rumble,  shake,  and  shiver,  the  snow 
slid  from  the  roof,  and  the  deluge  of  rain  came  roaring 
on  the  shingles.  It  was  a  bursting  of  the  reservoirs  of 
the  skies.  Nor  did  it  cease.  The  wind  whined  in  the  loose 
casing  of  the  window  like  some  animal  made  uneasy  by 
what  it  foresaw  and  feared. 

Aldrich  did  not  sleep.  That  resistless,  booming,  never- 
pausing  roar  shook  the  roof  above  him,  hour  after  hour. 

He  heard  a  voice  bawl  in  the  night  outside. 

"If  this  thing  doesn't  slack  up  pretty  quick,"  said  the 
voice,  "there's  going  to  be  hell  break  loose  in  the  valley 
of  the  St.  John." 


XXIX 

THE  GREAT  FLOOD  OF  THE  ST.  JOHN 

HEN  morning  broke,  the  clouds  were  still 
charging  the  snowbanks  with  lances  of 
the    rain.     Lightning   ripped   across    the 
gray  dawn,  and  thunder  clanged  above 
the  hills.     Thus  Nature  announced  the 
ominous  changing  of  her  winter  mood. 
It  was  that  phenomenon  of  the  northern  latitudes  that 
the  weatherwise  term  "a  January  thaw."     Most  winters 
exhibit  one   such  freak,    but   usually  the  winter  takes 
prompt  and  new  grip,  and  the  rains  freeze  in  the  skies  and 
the  north  winds  blow  the  clouds  away. 
But  this  was  more  than  the  ordinary  thaw. 
The   south   winds   held.     The    clouds   remained   low- 
hanging  in  the  skies  and  were  such  saturated  masses  that 
their  skirts  dragged  upon  the  tops  of  the  domed  hills. 

That  dread  event  was  beginning  which  is  on  the  records 
of  the  north  as  "the  great  flood  of  the  St.  John  Valley." 
There  are  times  when  Nature  seems  to  make  long  and 
careful  preparation  for  an  orgy  of  damage.  This  year 
she  had  piled  the  snow,  layer  after  layer,  covering  the 
fences,  fluffing  it  in  drifts  on  the  hilltops,  packing  it  in 
the  ravines,  a  congealed  flood  that  the  winter's  cold  had 
dammed,  but  a  flood  that  the  rains  now  freed  for  mis 
chief. 

Aldrich  found  a  discouraged  sheriff  when  he  entered 
the  men's  room  of  the  tavern  in  the  early  morning.     The 

367 


THE   RED  LANE 

county's  officer  was  rasping  stubby  fingers  through  his 
beard  and  looking  out  into  the  storm. 

The  highway  was  a  wallow  of  soft  snow.  Streams  were 
dashing  down  the  gullies  and  eddying  across  the  bridges 
and  the  culverts  which  were  in  sight  from  the  tavern. 

"It  might  be  done  on  stilts  or  in  a  balloon,"  said  the 
sheriff,  "but  not  with  a  horse  or  on  our  feet.  We've  got 
to  stay  here." 

It  was  weary  waiting  for  an  officer  who  had  his  duty 
to  perform,  and  for  a  prisoner  who  longed  fiercely  to  face 
the  charges  of  the  law  and  rid  himself  of  the  burden  of 
shame  and  the  anxiety  of  delay. 

Night  came  down  on  a  drenched  landscape,  and  the 
rain  was  still  falling.  During  the  long  black  hours  it 
roared  on  the  roof  over  Aldrich's  head. 

The  first  news  of  trouble  came  in  the  morning.  A  man 
had  managed  to  struggle  that  far  with  a  sack  of  mail. 
He  said  that  the  ice  was  beginning  to  let  go  up-river  where 
the  waters  were  swifter  and  the  pitch  of  the  river 
steeper. 

The  rain  did  not  cease.  The  south  wind  held.  Old 
January's  white  beard  was  gone,  and  the  water  streamed 
down  his  bare  face.  The  rivulets,  grown  to  torrents, 
rushed  from  the  hills  upon  the  ice  of  the  river.  The  chill 
was  gone  from  the  air.  The  ice  was  softened. 

When  night  came  on  again  hollow  sounds  rumbled  from 
the  breast  of  the  river.  They  were  the  premonitory 
growlings  of  chaos  getting  ready  to  burst  its  bonds. 

Aldrich  knew  the  St.  John  Valley  as  few  men  of  the 
section  understood  it.  He  had  fared  along  the  river's 
banks  in  all  seasons  and  had  studied  the  river's  moods. 
He  listened  there  under  the  roof  in  the  night,  and  knew 
the  menace  that  hovered  above  the  little  houses  of  the 
long  road. 

368 


THE    GREAT    FLOOD 

Where  the  roads  climbed  the  high  banks  the  houses 
would  be  safe. 

But  the  main  settlements,  the  clusters  of  houses,  were 
in  the  lowlands  close  to  the  river,  on  the  alluvial  meadows 
where  the  country  was  level  and  the  soil  was  rich.  With 
vision  made  clairvoyant  by  his  fears  he  could  behold 
what  must  be  happening.  The  rising  waters  were  cutting 
off  the  settlements  from  the  hills.  Meadows  would  be 
come  islands,  isolated  from  the  main  by  raging  torrents 
that  would  sweep  the  base  of  the  hills.  Men  would  hope, 
would  hesitate  to  brave  the  elements,  and  would  delay 
to  drag  their  women  and  children  out  of  the  shelter  of  the 
houses.  That  was  more  of  that  Gallic  nature  of  constant 
hope  and  of  dilatory  optimism  which  waits  too  long  be 
fore  it  acts. 

He  heard  the  grind  of  the  ice-cakes  when  they  started 
in  the  night.  He  rose  and  dressed  and  walked  in  the 
tavern's  office  until  the  wet  dawn  streaked  the  east.  He 
peered  through  the  fogged  windows  and  saw  the  tumbling 
torrent  below.  The  first  flotsam  of  disaster  was  already 
sweeping  past  on  its  way  to  the  sea.  Mingled  with  the 
ice-cakes  were  hay-ricks  that  had  been  torn  from  the 
meadows,  debris  of  barns,  and  the  structures  that  the 
water  had  reached  first,  boat-houses  and  other  frail 
trophies  of  the  skirmish-line  of  the  flood. 

The  sheriff  found  Aldrich  at  the  window  when  he  came 
down  from  his  uneasy  r,est. 

"This  spells  hell  in  capital  letters,"  said  the  sheriff. 

"It  is  only  the  beginning,  Mr.  Sheriff.  I  know  the 
conditions  along  this  river.  It's  all  right  for  us  here  on 
the  highlands,  but  I  couldn't  sleep  for  thinking  what  the 
conditions  must  be  in  the  settlements  of  the  Beaupre" 
meadows.  I'm  afraid  those  people  have  been  cut  off  be 
fore  they  realized  their  danger.  I  know  they  must  have 

369 


THE    RED    LANE 

been  cut  off.     Somebody  ought  to  be  organizing  a  relief 
party." 

"I  reckon  it  would  have  to  be  a  relief  party  of  angels 
— with  waterproof  wings  at  that,"  returned  the  sheriff, 
displaying  no  enthusiasm.  "Ordinary  human  beings 
can't  get  anywhere  this  weather  to  rescue  anybody.  I 
can't  even  start  out  with  you  to  take  you  to  where  you're 
going." 

Aldrich  turned  from  the  window  and  paced  the  room, 
his  mind  again  on  his  own  bitter  troubles  after  the  sheriff 
had  dropped  the  remark.  To  where  he  was  going !  That 
meant  jail.  There  was  no  bail  for  the  offense  with  which 
he  stood  charged  by  his  enemies.  It  must  be  faced!  He 
must  reconcile  himself  to  remain  in  jail  until  he  could  be 
purged  by  the  torturing  fires  of  public  trial.  Even  his 
own  consciousness  of  innocence  faltered  at  times  when  he 
reflected  on  the  situation  in  which  circumstance  had  placed 
him.  Somehow  this  arrest,  this  visible  reaching  of  the 
law  for  his  collar,  seemed  to  sanction  all  the  suspicion 
that  had  been  directed  his  way.  By  what  wonder  would 
he  be  absolved  from  the  black  doubt  in  his  own  mind? 

He  ate  without  appetite  when  breakfast  had  been 
served;  he  paced  listlessly,  waiting. 

"I  reckon  there  comes  some  news  of  something,"  re 
marked  one  of  the  tavern's  loungers.  He  pointed  to  a 
bateau  which  appeared,  swirling  down  the  river's  brown 
tide.  There  were  two  men  in  it,  and  they  managed  to 
beach  their  craft  through  the  ice-cakes  and  came  hurry 
ing  up  the  street  of  the  settlement. 

"Oh,  Messieurs,"  they  shouted  to  those  who  hastened 
from  the  tavern,  "who  is  there  here  to  help  the  poor  folks 
of  the  Beaupre*  meadows?  They  have  been  waiting  in 
their  houses,  hoping  that  the  rains  would  stop.  Now 
they  have  been  cut  off  from  the  shore." 

370 


THE    GREAT    FLOOD 

"You  see  I  was  right,"  stated  Aldrich  to  the  sheriff  at 
his  elbow. 

"But  that  is  not  the  worst,"  cried  one  of  the  messen- 
ge.rs.  "The  ice  has  lodged  in  the  Temiscouata  narrows 
above  Beaupre.  It  has  made  a  great  dam  there.  It 
must  give  way,  and  then  all  the  men  and  women  and  chil 
dren  will  be  drowned.  The  people  do  not  know  what  to  do. 
They  are  shouting  and  running  about,  and  no  one  is  a 
leader  with  a  cool  head.  The  folks  will  obey  a  leader. 
But  there  is  no  leader — no  one  who  is  brave  and  who 
understands.  Is  there  not  some  man  here  who  will  come 
and  command  those  who  are  willing,  but  who  do  not 
know?" 

The  listeners  muttered  among  themselves.  The  fat 
landlord  of  the  tavern  shook  his  head,  the  sheriff  grunted 
more  of  his  doubts  about  any  others  except  angels  being 
able  to  assist,  and  no  man  stepped  forward  as  a  volunteer. 

"Are  you  going  to  stand  here  and  let  those  women  and 
children  drown?"  demanded  Aldrich,  hotly. 

They  scowled  at  him,  for  there  was  a  taunt  in  his  words 
and  air. 

"It  is  you,  an  officer,  who  could  do  much,"  entreated 
the  spokesman.  "You  are  known  well  on  the  border, 
M'ser  Aldrich.  You  are  a  brave  man.  You  do  not  lose 
your  head  as  a  poor  Frenchman  does." 

"He  can't  go,"  snapped  the  sheriff,  showing  prompt 
alarm.  "I've  got  particular  reasons  why  he  can't  go, 
my  men." 

"Come  with  me,  then;  this  is  a  call  for  help,  and  it's 
up  to  us  as  men,"  insisted  Aldrich. 

"I'm  not  taking  any  such  chances.  If  there's  going  to 
be  any  traveling  done  it  will  be  to  where  we're  due." 

This  callous  obstinacy  was  like  the  sting  of  a  lash  on 
Aldrich's  self-control. 


THE    RED    LANE 

"I've  given  you  my  word.  Accept  my  parole  further 
while  I  obey  this  call." 

"It  isn't  regular,  and  I  can't  do  it." 

"You're  afraid  to  go  yourself,  and  you  don't  want  your 
own  cowardice  to  be  shown  up  if  I  go  alone,"  blazed 
the  prisoner.  He  could  not  keep  that  speech  back.  His 
whole  being  had  been  crying  out  within  him  at  the  in 
justice  of  this  arrest.  Now  he  voiced  his  protest  reck 
lessly.  The  sheriff's  surly  refusal  to  act  a  man's  part 
had  driven  him  into  a  passion  he  could  not  control. 

"It  has  been  between  us  like  gentlemen  and  officers  so 
far,  Mr.  Aldrich.  If  you're  proposing  to  put  it  on  an 
other  basis,  go  ahead — and  see  where  you  will  wind  up." 

He  added  a  sneer  that  the  occasion  did  not  call  for, 
but  the  young  man's  taunt  of  his  cowardice  could  not 
go  unchallenged. 

"Go  alone,  say  you?  What  do  you  think  one  man  like 
you  up  there  is  going  to  amount  to?" 

"I'll  show  you,  Mr.  Sheriff."  He  turned  and  ran  tow 
ard  the  tavern's  stable. 

The  sheriff  plunged  after  him,  shouting.  He  tugged 
at  his  hip  pocket.  But  he  did  not  produce  a  weapon. 
He  carried  none.  He  dragged  out  a  pair  of  handcuffs. 

"You'll  have  to  take  your  medicine  now,"  he  declared. 
"You've  put  it  all  on  another  basis." 

Aldrich  thrust  the  officer  violently  to  one  side  and 
struggled  with  the  girths  of  his  saddle. 

"By  Judas,  do  you  think  you're  going  to  run  away 
from  me?" 

"That's  right — swear  by  your  patron  saint,"  gasped 
Aldrich,  setting  toe  in  his  stirrup.  "As  for  me — by  God, 
I  am!" 

He  swung  to  his  saddle,  lay  flat  to  escape  the  door's 
lintel,  and  galloped  away.  The  sheriff  ran  after,  raving 

372 


THE    GREAT    FLOOD 

and  threatening.  But  Aldrich  leaped  his  horse  into  a 
ravine,  water-choked,  made  the  higher  land,  and  sped 
north  over  the  ledges  from  which  the  rains  had  stripped 
the  winter  covering. 

His  hard-won  knowledge  as  a  border  rider  served  him 
in  good  stead  in  that  chase  to  the  north.  In  the  past  he 
had  followed  many  a  smuggler  through  the  devious 
stragglings  of  "The  Red  Lane."  There  were  places  where 
he  was  obliged  to  swim  his  horse,  but  for  the  most  part 
he  gained  his  destination  along  the  ridges,  by  paths  he 
had  known  before. 

At  last  he  looked  down  on  the  turbid  flood  which  en 
compassed  the  threatened  homes  of  the  Beaupre'  meadows. 
It  was  plain  that  the  ice-jam  still  held  in  the  narrows  above. 
The  river  was  dangerously  high,  but  it  was  not  yet  the 
tumbling,  raging  torrent  that  it  would  become  when  the 
Temiscouata  narrows  disgorged.  He  wondered  how  much 
time  there  was  before  this  disaster  would  overwhelm  all 
the  valley. 

Men  had  flocked  on  the  highlands  above  the  meadows. 
They  told  him  that  the  jam  was  still  packing  higher  and 
higher,  that  it  was  groaning  and  rumbling,  and  that  the 
great  St.  John  was  sending  down  its  avalanches  of  ice  and 
water  and  must  prevail  in  the  end. 

Those  men  crowding  around  Aldrich,  recognizing  in 
this  stalwart  chap  who  had  rushed  up  from  the  south 
one  who  understood  how  to  command,  bewailed  the  little 
they  had  been  able  to  do. 

"Two  brave  men  who  went  out  from  this  shore  have 
already  been  drowned,"  they  told  him.  "Jules  Bour- 
dreau  and  Napoleon  Sinclair,  they  have  been  drowned, 
for  the  ice  beat  against  their  bateau.  We  have  not  dared 
to  launch  more  bateaux." 

He  gazed  out  on  the  rushing  river. 
25  373 


THE    RED    LANE 

"It  is  useless  to  send  bateaux,"  he  told  them.  "Even 
if  boatmen  can  reach  the  houses  and  take  in  the  people 
the  boats  will  be  swept  away  down  the  river." 

More  men  were  arriving,  many  of  them  astride  their 
sturdy  little  horses.  The  customs  officer  became  the 
center  of  a  wistful  band  of  farmers  who  muttered  and 
chattered  and  stared  at  him  and  were  barren  of  sugges 
tions  in  that  exigency.  In  times  of  stress  men  select  a 
leader  by  instinct.  And  such  a  leader  is  obeyed  because 
it  seems  to  his  followers  that  on  him  salvation  is  founded. 

Aldrich  knew  of  the  slender  resources  of  that  region 
as  well  as  he  knew  the  highways  and  the  byways.  Des 
perate  need  made  his  wits  nimble.  On  his  way  down  the 
hills  to  the  river  he  had  passed  one  of  the  snubbing-slopes 
of  the  timber  syndicate  where  loads  of  logs  were  eased 
down  the  mountain-side  by  means  of  great  hemp  cables. 

Communication  with  the  beleaguered  settlements — the 
cables  suggested  a  possibility!  The  snubbing-slopes  ex 
tended  for  half  a  mile;  he  knew  there  must  be  many 
cables. 

"If  we  had  giants  to  paddle  it  we  might  use  the  ferry- 
scow  which  is  pulled  up  in  the  logan  down  there, ' '  mourned 
one  of  the  men.  He  pointed  to  a  cleft  in  the  river's  bank. 

"Is  there  a  scow  there?"  demanded  Aldrich. 

"It  is  the  ferry-boat  for  Beaupre  upper  settlement 
when  the  high  waters  come  in  the  fall,  M'ser." 

Aldrich  leaped  from  his  horse.  He  was  captain  for 
sooth  now. 

No  more  doubt  or  hesitancy  in  his  mind!  Fate  had 
put  the  tools  into  his  grasp. 

"You  men  with  horses  gallop  over  to  the  snubbing- 
slopes.  Bring  all  the  cables.  If  there  are  more  in  the 
store  camp  make  the  boss  let  you  take  them.  Tell  him 
it's  life  or  death !  Here !  Bring  axes,  some  of  the  rest  of 

374 


THE    GREAT    FLOOD 

you !  Go  out  on  that  point  and  trim  one  of  those  biggest 
beech-trees  for  a  snubbing-post.  Pick  the  tree  that's 
rooted  firmest.  Swing  that  scow  free  and  hold  her  to 
the  bank.  Everybody  to  work,  my  men!" 

Then  there  were  hurrying  and  scurrying,  shouts  and 
clamor.  They  saw  what  he  planned  to  do. 

It  was  a  desperate  expedient,  but,  with  many  hands  to 
help,  it  offered  a  chance. 

The  point  of  land  on  which  men  were  smoothing  the 
trunk  of  the  big  tree  commanded  the  low  island  which 
the  raging  river  had  formed  of  Beaupre  meadows. 

Aldrich  sent  men  hurrying  for  all  the  horses  that  could 
be  gathered,  for  oxen,  for  more  men.  He  ran  here  and 
there,  exhorting,  commanding,  suggesting.  Men  toiled 
feverishly,  willingly.  They  came  with  the  cables,  they 
came  with  more  horses,  and  staring  oxen  were  hurried  to 
the  scene,  floundering  through  the  mud. 

The  toilers  clasped  the  smoothed  tree  with  two  coils 
of  cable,  and  men  who  understood  the  snubbing  of  the 
loaded  sleds  on  the  slopes  of  the  woods  stood  by  to  pay 
out. 

Aldrich  understood  the  desperate  chances  of  the  float 
ing  scow.  The  ice-jam  hung  in  Temiscouata  narrows 
like  the  sword  of  Damocles. 

"I  want  two  good  men  to  help  me  with  the  steering 
oars  on  this  scow,"  he  told  them.  He  leaped  on  board 
from  the  bank.  "You  know  what  it  will  mean  if  that  ice- 
jam  gives  way.  If  there  are  two  of  you  without  wives 
or  children  you  are  the  ones  to  come." 

Two  volunteers  sprang  to  the  deck  of  the  scow.  With 
their  heavy  sweeps  the  three  sculled  into  the  current, 
holding  the  nose  of  the  craft  offshore  in  the  direction  of 
the  island.  Ice  beat  against  the  planks,  drift  stuff 
menaced,  the  roiled  flood  trailed  banners  of  froth  past; 

375 


THE    RED    LANE 

but  the  scow  went  on,  eased  down  the  turbulent  tide  at 
the  end  of  the  straining  cable. 

The  frantic  folk  on  the  island  saw  and  understood. 
They  ran  and  massed  themselves  at  the  point  where  the 
scow  must  land.  They  screamed  and  leaped  and  waved 
their  hands. 

Aldrich,  toiling  at  one  of  the  sweeps,  shouted  encour 
agement  and  advice  as  the  scow  swung  near  the  land. 

"Your  wives  and  your  children,  men!"  he  counseled. 
"We  must  make  more  than  one  trip.  The  weak  ones 
first.  Be  Frenchmen!" 

They  at  the  other  end  of  the  cable  understood  their 
part  in  this  frantic  gamble  with  death. 

Aldrich  signaled  with  flourish  of  his  hat  that  the  scow 
had  grounded. 

He  signaled  again  when  the  loading  of  the  first  cargo 
had  been  finished.  He  took  his  stand  at  the  post  to 
which  the  end  of  the  cable  was  knotted.  Though  every 
horse,  ox,  and  man  on  the  main  was  now  tugging  at  the 
tow-rope,  that  moment  was  an  anxious  one.  Could  they 
furnish  the  power  to  stem  that  current  ?  Would  the  scow 
live  through  that  battle  with  flotsam  and  ice?  Aldrich 
was  hemmed  in  by  sobbing,  fearing  women  and  children; 
he  left  sobbing  men  behind  him  on  the  shore.  He  saw 
the  long  cable  heave  from  the  yellow  water;  he  felt  the 
scow  move,  swaying  in  the  current. 

He  and  his  men  armed  themselves  with  the  sweeps. 

They  couched  the  heavy  oars  like  lances  in  rest. 

They  met  the  shock  of  the  oncoming  ice-cakes,  tilting 
with  those  white  knights  of  the  watery  field,  endeavoring 
to  break  the  shock  of  their  impact  on  the  planks  of  the 
scow.  It  was  truly  man's  work,  that  task  was!  Blows 
that  racked  the  bones  were  dealt  by  the  ice-cakes.  Al 
drich  set  his  teeth  and  fought,  knowing  that  the  safety 

376 


THE    GREAT    FLOOD 

of  that  load  of  humanity  depended  on  his  keeping  those 
mad  charges  of  the  ice  in  check,  diverting  the  direct 
onslaught.  And  all  the  time  he  was  fearing  to  hear  the 
thunder  which  would  announce  that  Temiscouata  had 
opened  her  jaws  to  spit  out  those  gigantic  gobbets  which 
choked  her. 

But  he  won  in  that  first  throw  of  the  dice  with  Death! 

Panting,  lying  prone  with  his  two  helpers  on  the  deck 
of  the  scow,  he  saw  his  precious  cargo  discharged  at  last 
upon  the  solid  ground. 

He  heard  the  cheers.  Men  rushed  to  him  to  press  his 
bleeding  hands. 

Of  the  next  trip  they  made  better  work.  They  had 
proved  what  the  scow  would  endure.  The  rescued  men 
with  sticks  and  poles  fought  the  ice  on  the  return  up  the 
stream. 

A  half-hour  later  the  dwellers  of  the  Beaupre"  meadows 
stood  on  the  high  ground  and  heard  the  awful  detonations 
of  the  bursting  jam,  saw  the  leaping  cavalcade  of  the  ice 
rush  down  and  overwhelm  the  little  houses ;  but  they  had 
won  life  out  of  the  very  teeth  of  death,  and  stood  there 
unharmed,  from  the  oldest  grandsire  to  tiniest  babe. 

And  all  understood  who  had  accomplished  this  and  how 
he  had  played  his  part  in  it. 

They  who  had  done  the  most  to  aid  him  were  the  first 
to  crowd  around  and  shout  their  gratitude  to  him  in  that 
he  had  allowed  them  to  help.  They  insisted  that  all  the 
credit  was  his.  Only  by  reminding  them  that  there  was 
other  work  to  do  in  the  valley  did  he  manage  to  escape 
from  this  excited  worship  of  himself.  Women  kissed  his 
hands,  bruised  and  bleeding  from  his  toil  at  the  sweeps, 
and  held  up  their  children.  Men,  with  French  fervor, 
embraced  him  and  kissed  his  cheeks. 

But  Aldrich  had  only  a  sad  smile  for  all  this  extrava- 

377 


THE    RED    LANE 

gance.  He  was  a  prisoner  who  had  run  away  from  his 
keeper  in  a  mad  impulse  to  be  of  service  in  time  of  dis 
aster.  He  was  charged  with  murder;  and  that  tiding 
must  now  be  spreading  from  end  to  end  of  the  section. 

But  he  was  resolved  to  go  on  to  the  close  of  the  task 
to  which  he  had  set  himself. 

The  valley  was  full  of  suffering.  There  were  others 
to  be  saved.  There  were  people  to  be  fed  and  housed. 
There  were  plans  to  be  made  for  getting  word  to  the  out 
side  world,  so  that  the  charitable  could  assist  in  this 
time  of  ruin  and  despair.  They  had  accepted  him  as 
their  captain.  They  flocked  around  him,  anxious  to  be 
commanded  so  that  they  could  obey. 

He  put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  band  he  had  chosen 
from  the  men  and  went  to  and  fro  in  his  work  of  rescue 
and  amelioration.  Day  after  day  passed.  Each  day  im 
posed  new  burdens  on  him.  He  had  become  the  heart 
of  the  work  of  aid  and  relief,  for  in  that  chaos  one  who 
can  control  all  others  must  be  the  center  of  affairs. 

The  law  called  on  him  to  go  to  the  sheriff,  so  he  pon 
dered. 

But  that  duty  in  the  north  summoned  him  with  more 
imperative  mandate,  for  his  heart  was  in  his  work. 

Yet,  wherever  he  went,  he  expected  to  behold  the 
sheriff's  grim  visage  appear  and  to  hear  his  summons. 

Suspense  was  proving  too  great  a  trial  for  him. 

He  could  endure  the  agony  of  it  all  no  longer. 

So,  at  last,  he  told  his  loyal  little  band  of  workers  that 
he  must  leave  them;  and  he  told  them  why.  He  had 
noticed  strange  looks,  had  heard  muffled  whispers,  and 
he  thought  he  understood  what  all  this  meant. 

Some  of  his  men  had  left  without  telling  him  that  they 
were  going  away.  This  defection  indicated  that  there 
were  many  who  believed  the  dreadful  charge  that  had  been 

378 


THE    GREAT    FLOOD 

brought  against  him ;  and  he  mourned,  and  no  more  heart 
was  left  in  him  for  his  work. 

He  insisted  that  he  must  go,  and  after  a  time  his  men 
ceased  to  urge  him  to  remain. 

One  man  followed  him  a  little  way  on  the  road,  over 
took  him,  and  whispered  to  him. 

"  I  am  breaking  my  word  to  men  who  have  pledged  me, 
M'ser  Aldrich,  but  when  I  saw  you  start  to  ride  away 
south  you  looked  so  sad  I  thought  I'd  rather  break  my 
word  than  see  you  break  your  heart." 

He  patted  the  young  man's  arm. 

"You  have  seen  queer  looks  and  heard  whispers,  and 
men  have  gone  away  without  saying  good-by  to  you, 
eh?  You  think  that  this  all  means  bad  things,  eh?" 

"I  cannot  blame  them,"  returned  Aldrich,  lugubriously. 

"No,  that's  right — you  cannot  blame  them,"  cried 
the  man,  grinning  in  the  face  of  the  astonished  officer. 
"You  will  hear  what  those  whispers  meant  and  why  they 
went  away — and  you  will  not  blame  them." 

He  backed  away  as  though  he  feared  to  say  too  much. 

"You  go  on  your  way,  M'ser  Aldrich,  and  do  not  break 
your  heart  any  more;  because  the  poor  people  must  find 
some  way  to  pay  a  debt  they  owe  to  a  man  like  you,  even 
if  they  have  to  pay  in  their  blood." 


XXX 


HOW  ACADIA   PAID  A  DEBT 

HILE  Norman  Aldrich  was  riding  moodily 
down  from  the  north  toward  the  settle 
ment  where  the  grip  of  the  law  was  wait 
ing  for  him  a  dozen    men  whose   faces 
were  marked  by  grim  earnestness  were 
riding  up  from  the  south. 
Aldrich  found  a  sullen  sheriff  still  marooned  at  the 
tavern.     The  man  had  no  taste  for  wallowing  through 
streams  and  climbing  hills  in  pursuit  of  such  a  young  mad 
man  as  his  prisoner  appeared  to  be. 

The  sheriff  tried  to  be  bitter  and  sarcastic  when  his 
prey  was  once  more  in  his  hands.  He  even  made  a  move 
ment  toward  the  hip  pocket  that  held  his  handcuffs. 

But  the  hard,  gray  eyes  of  this  young  man  who  came 
riding  from  the  north  made  him  blink  and  falter. 

Mud-spattered,  hollow-cheeked,  and  pale  with  vigils, 
toil,  and  fasting,  his  soul  in  arms  against  the  fate  which 
menaced  him,  Aldrich  was  not  one  to  endure  more,  and 
his  mien  suggested  as  much  to  the  officer. 

"I  am  ready  now,  sir,"  the  young  man  informed  him. 
"You  can  make  as  much  capital  as  you  like  out  of  what 
you  call  my  escape;  but  talk  of  it  to  others,  not  to  me." 
"You  needn't  worry,  I'm  not  going  to  mention  it," 
muttered  the  sheriff.  "I  ain't  inclined  to  make  it  any 
harder  for  you  than  it  is  now — and  it  doesn't  reflect  any 
particular  credit  on  me,"  he  added,  with  candor. 

380 


HOW   ACADIA    PAID    A    DEBT 

They  went  on  their  way,  that  truce,  and  a  sullen  silence 
between  them.  The  sheriff  rode  a  stumbling  horse  awk 
wardly,  for  the  road  was  still  impassable  for  wheeled 
vehicles. 

The  perils  which  he  had  endured  for  others,  the  toil  in 
which  he  had  plunged  himself  in  that  wild  energy  of  despair, 
had  blessed  Aldrich  with  partial  forgetfulness  of  his  bitter 
plight  for  a  few  days.  In  his  present  prostration  of  mind 
and  body  he  met  the  situation  with  hopelessness  in  his 
thoughts.  Whatever  might  be  the  outcome  of  his  trial 
by  law — and  after  his  conference  with  his  lawyer  friend 
he  had  accepted  that  ordeal  as  inevitable — the  stain  of 
it  must  remain.  What  did  it  all  presage  for  the  love  and 
the  future  of  Evangeline  and  himself?  He  had  dared  to 
face  the  impending  horror  of  the  Temiscouata  jaws;  but 
he  dared  not  face  his  thoughts  at  that  moment. 

Through  watercourses  which  had  spent  their  force, 
over  jagged  rents  where  the  floods  had  torn  their  way, 
he  fared  south  with  his  grim  companion. 

Thus  he  met  the  twelve  men  who  were  faring  north. 

They  massed  in  the  road  and  halted.  He  saw  with 
surprise  that  several  of  these  men  were  the  ones  who  had 
deserted  him.  One  advanced  from  the  rest  and  held  up 
his  hand. 

"You  are  the  sheriff?"  he  asked  the  surly  officer. 

"I  am,  and  you  fellows  better  not  try  any  funny  busi 
ness."  He  had  scented  a  plan  to  interfere  with  his  pris 
oner.  For  one  alarmed  moment  he  feared  a  lynching,  for 
these  were  Frenchmen. 

"You  have  arrested  M'ser  Aldrich  for  killing  Vetal 
Beaulieu?  Is  that  it?" 

"That's  what  the  warrant  charges." 

The  spokesman  turned  slowly  and  solemnly  to  the 
group  of  men  and  pointed  to  one  of  them. 


THE    RED    LANE 

"You  will  arrest  that  man  there,  M'ser  Sheriff.  He  is 
the  man  who  killed  Vetal  Beaulieu." 

He  had  designated  a  shaggy,  cowering  man  whose  hands 
were  lashed  with  a  bit  of  rope. 

"That  is  Joe  Dionne,  M'ser  Sheriff.  They  call  him 
Wild-wit  Dionne  in  the  place  where  he  lives.  His  head 
is  bad.  His  brains  flew  away  a  long  time  ago;  and  he 
killed  Vetal  Beaulieu  because,  so  he  has  told  us,  it  was 
so  commanded  by  the  good  God  who  guards  the  poor 
people." 

"He  robbed,  he  took  away  the  cows  and  the  horses, 
he  left  the  poor  people  without  money,  and  the  children 
without  food,"  mumbled  the  man  who  had  been  pointed 
out.  "It  was  told  me  by  God  that  I  must  do  what  I 
did  for  the  sake  of  the  poor  people." 

"Say,  look  here!  I'm  no  court  to  try  law  cases,"  said 
the  sheriff,  alarm  and  doubt  on  his  face.  "I'm  taking 
along  a  prisoner  who  has  been  indicted  all  due  and  regu 
lar.  I  don't  know  anything  about  this  other  thing." 

"Then  you  shall  know,"  insisted  the  man  who  had  first 
spoken. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed  to  the  sheriff's  prisoner, 
a  prisoner  who  listened  with  stupefaction. 

In  the  band  of  men  Aldrich  now  perceived  that  same 
sullen  youth  who  had  driven  home  to  Monarda  Vetal 
Beaulieu's  horses  on  that  night  when  the  officer  had  been 
waiting  to  have  his  man's  talk  with  Evangeline's  father. 
He  understood,  to  his  soul's  joy,  that  here  undoubtedly 
awaited  more  evidence  in  his  behalf  than  mere  confession 
of  a  half-wit. 

"Yes,  you  shall  know,  too,  M'ser  Aldrich,  for  it  is  right 
that  you  should  know.  You  have  put  your  mind  and 
your  strength  to  the  saving  of  the  people  of  Acadia, 
and  you  deserve  far  more  than  any  poor  service  they  can 

382 


HOW   ACADIA    PAID    A    DEBT 

return.  This  what  we  have  done  is  only  part  of  that 
service  they  owe.  There  have  been  strange  stories  on 
the  border.  There  was  much  talk.  There  were  men  who 
knew  the  truth,  M'ser,  and  they  had  money  with  which 
to  cover  up  that  truth.  You  know  that  Vetal  Beaulieu 
came  down  on  the  poor  people  with  all  his  anger,  and  the 
people  were  angry,  too.  This  man  here,  Wild-wit  Dionne, 
heard  what  the  people  said  about  Vetal  Beaulieu.  His 
brother  lost  his  horse  and  his  cows,  and  he  heard  the  chil 
dren  crying  for  food.  He  followed  Vetal  Beaulieu.  And 
what  did  he  do — what  did  Dionne  do  to  Beaulieu?"  The 
spokesman  shook  his  finger  at  the  sullen  youth. 

"Dionne  shot  Beaulieu,"  confessed  the  witness.  "He 
came  up  behind  and  shot  him.  It  was  on  the  road  east 
of  Monarda." 

"Who  else  was  there?" 

"Dave  Roi  was  riding  with  Beaulieu." 

"What  more?" 

"Dave  Roi  took  the  body  and  hid  it  by  the  roadside, 
and  he  went  for  men  who  had  smuggled  for  him,  and  they 
took  the  body  to  the  hill  where  it  was  found.  We  were 
paid  to  keep  still." 

"And  you  know  more,"  insisted  the  spokesman. 

"I  know  that  Dave  Roi  had  saved  shells  from  the  gun 
of  the  customs  man — he  had  found  them  somewhere  in 
the  north." 

Aldrich,  his  brain  clearing,  his  thoughts  rioting,  knew 
where  Roi  had  obtained  those  shells ;  Aldrich  had  jacked 
them  out  from  his  rifle  when  he  had  stood  off  the  gang  which 
threatened  to  pursue  when  he  had  rescued  Evangeline. 

"And  you  knew  that  Roi  waited  and  left  Beaulieu's 
body  in  the  woods  until  he  had  his  plot  ready,  eh?" 

"Men  were  paid  to  keep  still.  I  was  paid.  It  was 
Dave  Roi's  business.  We  have  not  interfered." 

383 


THE    RED    LANE 

"But  how  have  you  found  out  all  this — how  have  you 
made  these  men  confess?"  Aldrich  gasped. 

"We  were  all  men  of  Acadia.  We  have  been  put  in 
your  debt  and  we  could  not  pay.  There  were  rumors. 
We  hunted  down  these  rumors  among  our  people.  And 
when  we  had  hunted  them  to  the  last  corner  we  knew 
what  to  do,"  stated  the  man,  grimly.  "We  would  have 
paid  you,  M'ser  Aldrich,  even  if  we  had  paid  in  our  blood. 
We  ask  only  one  thing — that  you  will  speak  some  wise 
words  to  the  law  for  the  sake  of  this  poor  man  who  killed 
and  did  not  understand  what  a  crime  he  was  committing. 
He  is  only  Wild- wit  Dionne." 

It  had  come  so  suddenly,  so  wonderfully,  such  glorious 
fruit  of  his  own  sacrifice  in  behalf  of  these  people,  that 
Aldrich  was  moved  to  an  act  which  expressed  his  feelings, 
even  as  one  of  these  simple-hearted  men  would  have  ex 
pressed  his  own.  He  took  off  his  hat.  He  looked  up  at 
the  sky. 

"I  return  thanks  to  you,  God,  for  your  wonderful  work 
with  the  human  heart,"  he  murmured. 

He  leaped  from  his  horse  then  and  went  among  them, 
stammering  his  gratitude.  He  clasped  their  hard  hands 
and  stared  at  their  honest  faces  through  his  tears. 

"There  are  other  witnesses  who  will  come  forward — we 
shall  know  how  to  make  them  come,"  stated  the  leader. 

'  They  must  be  assured  that  they  will  be  protected  from 
the  dirty  persecution  of  Roi,  then  they  will  come  for 
ward,"  cried  Aldrich.  "I  will  use  what  little  power  I 
possess  to  guard  them  from  that  man." 

The  man  looked  at  Aldrich  for  some  moments,  a  strange 
expression  on  his  countenance. 

"You  have  not  heard,  M'ser  Officer  of  the  Customs? 
No,  it  could  not  be  that  you  have  heard.  David  Roi 
learned  of  our  errand  when  we  came  to  hunt  rumors  to 

384 


HOW   ACADIA    PAID   A    DEBT 

their  corner.  He  came  raging,  to  stop  us,  to  threaten, 
to  frighten  those  who  were  there  to  do  their  duty  and  take 
away  this  disgrace  from  the  Acadian  people — for  what 
could  match  the  disgrace  of  letting  a  good  and  a  brave 
man  suffer  for  another's  crime?  We  do  not  know  just 
how  it  happened.  We  stand  ready  to  take  the  blame. 
We  only  know  we  fought  back.  But  no  one  will  ever  fear 
Dave  Roi  again." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"No,  he  is  blind.  We  took  him  home  to  the  girl  who 
has  borne  him  a  child.  Perhaps  he  will  make  a  wife  of 
her  now,  for  he  must  depend  upon  her  eyes  for  the  rest 
of  his  life ;  and  I  think  Dave  Roi  will  find  that  he  has  no 
other  friend  to  lead  his  steps." 

Fate  was  surely  meting  rewards  and  punishments  at 
last  with  ruthless  and  steady  hand,  so  Aldrich  reflected. 

He  walked  to  the  sheriff. 

"We  will  all  go  with  you  to  the  border,"  he  said.  "We 
will  help  you  to  perform  your  duty,  Mr.  Sheriff." 

Two  days  later  a  message  came  to  Aldrich;  and  he 
could  obey  that  message,  for  he  was  a  free  man. 

Representative  Clifford  called  him  urgently  to  the  State 
Capitol. 

His  full  heart  urged  him  to  hasten  to  Evangeline  with 
the  story  of  their  deliverance,  but  he  resolutely  faced  his 
duty  and  hurried  south.  He  knew  that  one  of  his  faith 
ful  Acadian  friends  was  posting  north  to  Attegat  with 
the  tale  that  would  brighten  a  girl's  dark  eyes. 

"Out  of  the  great  troubles  of  mankind  come  the  great 
blessings,  after  all,"  the  patriarch  cried,  when  Aldrich 
found  him  in  the  State  House.  "There's  a  change  of 
heart  here,  my  boy.  The  lawmakers  of  this  State  are 
not  monsters.  They  have  been  stirred  up  by  what  has 
happened  in  the  north.  They  simply  have  got  to  act 

385 


THE    RED    LANE 

now.  They're  showing  their  human  feelings!  That 
flood  may  have  raised  the  devil  along  the  St.  John,  but 
it  has  also  washed  some  of  the  confounded  nonsense  out 
of  this  legislature.  We  have  introduced  that  land  bill 
again.  With  these  new  troubles  of  poor  Acadia  before  the 
people,  there  isn't  a  man  who  will  dare  to  oppose  it. 
Sympathy  will  sit  as  the  honorary  chairman  of  that  com 
mittee  hearing !  Come  along  before  it.  It's  you  who  can 
talk  to  'em!  Tell  'em  the  story  of  the  flood!  Show  'em 
your  blistered  hands.  We'll  put  this  thing  into  their 
hearts.  Before,  at  that  other  hearing,  we  were  trying 
to  pound  truth  through  their  hard  skulls." 

That  was  a  wonderful  committee  hearing!  The  big 
room  was  packed.  Aldrich  was  heard  with  breathless 
attention.  The  needs  of  that  people  whom  the  rest  of 
the  State  had  not  understood  made  sure  and  potent  ap 
peal  to  all  who  listened. 

The  tale  of  that  disaster  which  had  made  desolate  the 
homes  of  the  little  settlements  touched  all  hearts. 

The  hero  of  the  flood  did  not  tell  his  own  story.  Others 
did  that,  and  men  crowded  around  to  shake  his  hands 
and  cry  their  compliments. 

The  lawmakers  did  their  duty  and  succored  a  suffering 
people! 

It  is  a  matter  of  history  how  a  great  State  gave  fifty 
thousand  acres  of  land  to  worthy  settlers  who  had  been 
fighting  greed  and  prejudice. 

And  the  story  of  how  it  was  accomplished  has  now  been 
told. 

Thus,  out  of  great  woe  sprang  wondrous  blessings! 

Aldrich  was  impatient  to  be  gone,  to  be  back  again 
in  the  north.  But  he  stayed  until  the  affairs  of  Acadia  had 
been  arranged. 

Further  intelligence  came  from  the  north.  The  men 

386 


HOW   ACADIA    PAID   A    DEBT 

who  had  undertaken  to  run  those  rumors  to  their  corner 
also  unearthed  the  fact  that  Louis  Blais  and  David  Roi 
had  instigated  the  destruction  of  the  big  school  on  the 
hill  of  Attegat.  The  honest  men  were  paying  their  debt 
of  gratitude,  and  the  law  had  its  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  that  frock-coat  whose  tails  Blais  had  flaunted  so 
boldly. 

The  governor  of  the  State  sent  for  Aldrich  one  day 
before  the  young  man  left  the  capital  city. 

"Of  course,  there  is  no  other  man  so  well  fitted  as  you 
to  serve  as  chairman  of  the  commission  which  I  shall  ap 
point  to  review  claims  and  apportion  this  land  to  the 
settlers  along  the  border,  Mr.  Aldrich.  I  earnestly  re 
quest  you  to  accept  the  appointment.  The  appropriation 
will  afford  lucrative  employment,  and  the  position  will 
lead  to  better  things,  I  am  sure." 

He  had  been  dreading  his  return  to  Red  Lane  for  many 
weeks.  Its  duties  had  become  hateful;  its  perils  had 
pursued  him  remorselessly.  He  thanked  the  governor 
with  a  full  heart  and  laid  aside  the  eagle  badge  forever. 

Eagerly  Aldrich  prepared  for  his  return  to  Attegat  as 
the  commissioned  head  of  the  new  board  on  State  lands, 
impatient  to  begin  his  important  employment,  knowing 
that  he  understood  the  people  and  could  deal  justly.  He 
realized  to  the  depths  what  this  action  of  the  State  meant. 
It  meant  Attegat  newly  established,  the  homes  of  the 
people  assured,  boys  and  girls  given  opportunities  to  re 
main  on  the  soil  which  they  loved,  the  ties  of  kindred 
knitted  forever  in  one  great  and  contented  community. 

That  he,  personally,  was  to  have  so  great  a  part  in  the 
readjustment  of  the  rights  of  a  people  meant  more  to 
him  than  the  returns  in  money,  though  he  owned  to 
himself  that  this  money  would  play  an  important  part  in 
a  matter  nearest  to  his  heart. 

387 


THE    RED    LANE 

So  he  hurried  back,  when  his  work  at  the  State  House 
was  finished,  to  Attegat  and  to  Evangeline.  And  again, 
as  he  had  confessed  to  himself  once  on  the  long  road,  he 
knew  that  his  eagerness  to  be  gone,  his  ardor  of  haste, 
his  longing  to  be  once  more  in  the  north,  were  inspired 
by  the  girl  who  was  waiting  up  there  for  her  lover ! 


XXXI 


THE    GIFTS   IN   THE    LAP   OF  JUNE 


UNE  came  to  Attegat  once  more,  swing 
ing  her  censers  of  purple  haze  above  the 
domed  hills  and  over  the  twinkling  river. 
June  laughed  that  year.  June  rioted 
in  masses  of  herbage  on  the  alluvial  mea 
dows  where  the  floods  had  dumped  the 
rich  new  soil.  The  people  of  the  border  laughed,  too,  for 
joy  had  been  born  out  of  sorrow,  good -fortune  out  of 
tribulation. 

Patiently,  justly,  sympathetically,  three  earnest  men 
were  distributing  the  lands  to  the  settlers;  and  Norman 
Aldrich  was  that  one  of  the  three  who  was  most  ex 
alted  in  the  minds  of  a  thankful  people. 

On  the  hill  which  dominated  the  village  of  Attegat 
hammers  clanged  and  saws  rasped  from  dawn  till  dusk, 
for  the  big  school  was  rising  from  its  ashes  again,  more 
spacious  than  before. 

The  merry  music  of  that  industry  came  in  at  the  open 
windows  of  Madame  Ouillette's  cottage,  and  the  crayon 
portrait  of  the  deceased  Monsieur  Ouillette  grinned  most 
amiably.  But  if  departed  spirits  can,  as  the  widow  of 
Monsieur  Ouillette  so  fondly  believed,  show  delight 
through  the  agency  of  their  portraits,  it  is  not  at  all  prob 
able  that  he  was  rejoicing  that  day  over  the  diligence  of 
carpenters.  There  must  be  more  heart-interest  in  matters 
26  389 


THE    RED    LANE 

which  can  draw  the  attention  of  a  spirit  from  affairs  of 
Paradise  to  things  of  earth. 

There  was  heart-interest  that  day  in  the  cottage  where 
the  portrait  smiled. 

There  was  subdued  bustle  in  the  home  of  Madame 
Ouillette — quiet,  happy  bustle.  Only  two  were  there, 
the  madame  and  Evangeline  Beaulieu. 

"Yes,  the  kitchen  and  the  little  bedroom  are  enough  for 
me,"  sighed  Madame  Ouillette,  surveying  her  work  of 
removal  of  her  belongings,  examining  with  glistening  eyes 
the  new  furnishings  which  had  taken  the  place  of  her 
own  plain  household  goods.  "For  I  shall  not  marry, 
Mam'selle.  That  is  settled!  He  has  frowned  many 
times  when  I  have  been  tempted.  You  may  see  how 
happy  he  seems  now — now  that  I  have  given  up  the 
thought  forever." 

"Yes,"  admitted  Evangeline,  her  cheeks  rosy,  "he  has 
a  wonderfully  happy  look.  Everybody  seems  to  be  happy 
to-day." 

"Ah,  Mam'selle,"  returned  the  madame,  archly,  "when 
Love  has  scrubbed  the  looking-glass  of  life  all  so  clean  and 
bright,  and  you  look  into  it  on  your  wedding-day  with  a 
smile,  surely  the  world  must  smile  back!" 

She  came  to  the  blushing  girl,  put  her  motherly  arm 
about  her,  and  led  her  toward  the  door. 

"You  shall  go  into  the  garden  now  and  sit  and  dream, 
for  the  dreams  of  the  wedding-day  are  the  sweetest 
dreams  of  all  life.  My  hands  shall  do  what  is  to  be  done 
within  here.  That  will  be  my  happiness,  Mam'selle. 
You  shall  cut  the  roses  and  lay  them  in  this  basket  so 
that  they  may  be  ready  when  I  come  to  the  last  task, 
for  you  shall  come  in  to-night  from  under  the  stars  to 
rest  under  the  roses." 

Love  makes  poesy  blossom  in  the  plainest  life;  Madame 

390 


THE   GIFTS   OF   JUNE 

Ouillette  felt  the  influence  of  it,  and  her  Acadian  nature 
voiced  that  poesy  as  best  she  could. 

Evangeline,  in  the  garden,  felt  it  more  deeply  and  did 
not  attempt  to  voice  it. 

Bullhead  Cyr,  of  Cyr's  tavern  across  the  border,  came 
to  the  village  of  Attegat  that  day. 

He  climbed  the  hill  and  found  the  girl  snipping  roses, 
lingering  over  her  task,  dropping  blossom  after  blossom 
into  a  basket  as  though  each  were  a  rosary  bead  and  a 
prayer  accompanied  it. 

"This  is  Mam'selle  Evangeline  Beaulieu,  eh?"  he  asked, 
hat  in  hand.  He  spoke  low;  he  glanced  about  furtively. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"You  are  the  daughter  of  M'ser  Vetal  Beaulieu,  and 
all  his  money  went  to  you,  eh?" 

Her  face  grew  white.  The  flush  of  her  happiness  de 
parted. 

"I  am  Vetal  Beaulieu's  daughter,  sir." 

"You  think  that  all  his  money  has  gone  to  you?"  he 
persisted. 

"I — I  have  not  thought,"  she  stammered.  She  did 
not  tell  him  that  she  had  not  dared  to  think  concerning 
that  loathsome  spoil  of  broken  laws  and  usury  and  sodden 
drunkenness.  "I  have  left  my  business  in  the  hands  of 
Notary  Pierre  Gendreau,  sir." 

"It  is  much  money,"  he  said,  his  voice  lower.  "It 
should  be  yours,  for  you  are  his  daughter — there  is  no 
one  else  in  his  family.  You  will  be  very  sad,  Mam'selle, 
eh,  if  all  that  good  money  goes  into  the  pocket  of  a  scamp, 
a  vagabond — the  money  that  is  rightfully  yours,  for  you 
are  Vetal's  only  child?  Ah,  it  is  not  right  to  take  money 
away  from  the  lawful  and  only  heir,  no  matter  what  fool 
ish  thing  may  be  done  in  anger  when  a  father  is  not  him 
self!" 


THE    RED    LANE 

He  eyed  her  keenly.  She  did  not  reply.  She  did  not 
understand  to  what  this  preface  tended. 

"I  can  tell  you  something  for  your  interest,  Mam'selle. 
I  have  been  thinking  much  of  it.  I  have  been  waiting 
long,  for  I  wanted  to  do  right.  I  will  go  straight  to  what 
I  have  to  say:  One  night  in  my  tavern  Vetal  Beaulieu 
made  his  will.  All  his  money  was  to  go  to  David  Roi  if 
that  same  David  Roi  made  you  his  wife  within  the  year. 
Roi  has  another  wife.  He  will  not  do  that.  Vetal  Beau- 
lieu,  your  father,  he  stamped  along  the  floor  and  said  that 
if  Dave  Roi  was  not  man  enough  to  get  you,  and  you 
were  the  undutiful  girl  so  that  you  would  not  marry  the 
man  he  had  picked  out,  then  he  would  have  his  money 
go  to  the  bad  place — he  would  have  it  wasted  by  a  vaga 
bond,  thrown  away — anything !  So  he  willed  that  money 
to  the  rogue,  the  fiddler,  the  old  loafer,  Anaxagoras 
Billedeau." 

The  girl  had  sunk  down  on  her  knees  beside  the  basket 
of  roses.  Her  hands  were  clutching  each  other,  her  lips 
were  apart. 

"Are  you  sure  of  that,  Monsieur?"  It  was  the  merest 
faint  breath  of  a  whispered  query,  but  he  heard  the  words 
and  smiled,  for  this  seemed  like  caution. 

He  tapped  his  thick  ringer  on  his  breast,  once,  twice, 
thrice. 

"I  am  sure  of  it,  because  I  have  the  will.  Vetal  Beau- 
lieu  put  it  into  my  safe." 

There  was  silence.  He  shifted  his  feet  uneasily,  for  she 
was  staring  at  him  with  eyes  he  could  not  understand. 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  me,  Mam'selle?" 

The  craft  of  that  deeper  femininity  stirred  in  her — 
woman's  wonderful  weapon  in  times  of  stress. 

"You  are  a  man.  You  are  wiser  than  a  girl.  What 
shall  be  done,  Monsieur?" 

392 


THE    GIFTS    OF   JUNE 

He  peered  at  her  for  some  time,  suspicion  restraining 
him,  greed  inciting  him. 

"I  can  go  to  the  law's  officers  with  the  will,  Mam'selle. 
That  is  one  way.  I  can  give  the  paper  to  the  law,  and  the 
fiddler  will  get  all  that  money  to  waste — take  it  away 
from  you  who  deserve  to  have  it." 

He  waited,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"You  are  wiser,"  she  murmured,  her  eyes  searching  his. 

"Or  I  can  give  the  hateful  will  to  you,  Mam'selle. 
For — "  he  hesitated  for  a  moment — "it  belongs  to  you. 
It  shall  be  for  you  to  say,  when  you  have  it  in  your  hands. 
I  shall  then  take  no  further  heed  of  it,  I  shall  have  done 
my  duty.  That  is  the  way  I  shall  feel." 

"Then  give  the  will  to  me." 

"For  one  thousand  dollars  I  will  give  it  to  you,"  he 
declared,  emboldened  by  that  sudden  gleam  in  those  eyes 
of  hers.  He  believed  that  he  had  seen  the  gleam  of 
avarice.  "I  will  give  it  to  you  and  forget  forever.  I 
swear  it." 

"I  have  not  one  thousand  dollars,  Monsieur.  Notary 
Pierre  has  all  my  affairs  in  his  hands." 

She  rose  from  beside  the  basket.    Resolve  animated  her. 

"You  shall  come  with  me  to  the  notary." 

He  reflected  a  moment.  He  could  see  no  danger  for 
himself.  At  the  most  she  could  only  surrender  the  will 
to  the  law.  But  he  had  little  faith  in  the  incorruptibility 
of  human  nature,  had  Felix  Cyr,  Bullhead  Cyr!  He  be 
lieved  he  understood  that  glint  in  her  eyes.  Much  money 
was  at  stake.  Was  it  likely  that  this  girl  would  tamely 
surrender  this  fortune  to  an  old  fiddler — a  girl  who  could 
so  easily  be  the  richest  girl  on  the  border? 

"Yes,  I  will  go  to  the  notary,"  he  told  her. 

They  walked  down  the  hill  together,  crossed  the  square, 
and  entered  Notary  Pierre's  office. 

393 


THE    RED    LANE 

She  went  straight  to  the  old  man's  table,  and  he  raised 
inquiring  eyes  over  his  horn  spectacles. 

"Monsieur  Cyr  has  my  father's  will,"  she  stated.  "He 
will  show  it  to  you.  You  shall  say  whether  it  is  lawful 
and  real." 

Cyr  looked  startled  and  was  suddenly  suspicious. 

"This  is  Notary  Pierre  Gendreau,"  Evangeline  cried, 
turning  to  the  publican.  "He  has  my  money — all  my 
affairs.  He  is  a  man  of  the  law.  But  he  will  do  as  I 
say,  for  he  is  my  close  friend.  He  will  understand.  Give 
the  will  to  him." 

The  notary  took  the  paper  and  perused  it.  In  the 
silence  of  the  room  only  the  crackling  of  the  paper  and 
the  old  man's  startled  mutterings  could  be  heard. 

"It  is  signed,  sealed,  and  witnessed — it  is  his  will — it 
is  correct,"  he  said,  turning  pitying  gaze  on  the  girl. 

The  color  came  into  her  cheeks  again.  Her  eyes  shone. 
Joy  radiated  from  her.  She  became  like  one  who  had  long 
faced  bitter  doubt  and  now  found  her  path  cleared. 

"What  does  the  law  do  when  a  will  is  right  and  correct, 
Notary  Pierre?"  she  asked. 

"The  will  is  probated;  the  true  heir  receives,  Mam'selle." 

"I  put  it  in  your  hands,  into  the  hands  of  the  law,  sir. 
I  am  done  with  it — and  I  thank  the  good  God  who  has 
lifted  this  burden  from  me." 

She  turned  at  the  door. 

"I  think  Monsieur  Cyr  deserves  generous  reward  for 
bringing  this  paper  to  us,  Notary  Pierre.  Out  of  your 
kindness,  out  of  my  father's  money  pay  him  well.  That 
is  all  I  ask — nothing  for  myself." 

She  left  the  two  men  staring  at  each  other. 


In  the  sacristy  of  the  little  parish  church  of  Attegat 
there  was  a  wedding  that  evening,  just  after  the  dusk 

394 


THE    GIFTS    OF   JUNE 

had  deepened  and  the  purple  shadows  had  faded  from  the 
domed  hills.  The  little  priest  walked  from  the  stone 
house,  a  new  cassock  dragging  on  his  heels ;  and  the  patri 
arch  walked  with  him,  hands  behind  his  back. 

In  the  dusk,  from  Madame  Ouillette's,  came  Aldrich  and 
Evangeline;  and  they  met  the  little  priest  and  the  patri 
arch  at  the  door  of  the  sacristy,  and  the  four  went  in 
together.  There  were  no  others.  It  had  been  planned 
that  way.  For  the  shadow  of  Vetal  Beaulieu's  death  still 
hovered  over  their  joy,  and  it  had  seemed  best  to  take 
only  the  few  into  their  confidence.  Their  own  hearts 
could  ring  the  peal ;  their  own  souls  could  sing  the  songs. 

So  they  were  married! 

The  priest  and  the  patriarch  went  back  to  the  stone 
house. 

Hand  in  hand,  the  groom  and  the  bride  crossed  the 
square  to  take  the  lane  which  led  to  the  meadows  beside 
the  river.  That  bit  of  journey,  in  the  glory  of  the  stars 
of  June,  was  to  be  their  honeymoon  trip;  a  few  hours 
together  in  the  peace  of  the  meadows. 

In  front  of  one  of  the  little  houses,  just  off  the  village 
square,  they  spied  a  dusty  buckboard  with  dished  wheels ; 
and  from  within  doors  sounded  the  plaintive  notes  of  a 
fiddle. 

"It  is  Anaxagoras  Billedeau,"  whispered  Aldrich. 

His  wife  halted  him.  She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck 
and  kissed  him,  delicious  preface  of  a  request. 

"Will  you  go  and  fetch  Billedeau,  dear?  Ask  him  to 
walk  with  us  into  the  meadows.  I  have  something  to 
tell  him — to  tell  you.  I  have  been  waiting  to  tell  it  to 
you." 

The  fiddler  came  out  into  the  evening,  wondering.  He 
carried  his  fiddle,  hurrying  forth  when  he  understood  that 
Aldrich  had  summoned  him.  He  trudged  behind  them 

395 


THE    RED    LANE 

till  they  came  to  the  willows.  The  great  river  was  close 
to  their  feet  as  they  sat  there.  Its  waters  swept  the  near 
shallows  with  the  rustling  sound  of  silk. 

She  told  them — her  husband  and  Anaxagoras  Bille- 
deau — of  the  visit  of  Felix  Cyr.  She  related  briefly  and 
simply  what  had  happened;  she  did  not  color  the  narra 
tion  with  expressions  of  joy  or  regret. 

After  she  had  finished,  Aldrich  leaped  to  his  feet.  He 
raised  his  wife  and  drew  her  close  to  him. 

"So  I  come  to  you,  my  husband,  with  empty  hands  and 
a  full  heart,"  she  said,  before  his  lips  had  found  hers. 

"  I  have  not  dared  to  speak  of  that  thing — that  money — 
to  you,  my  wife !  I  could  not  speak  of  it !  I  could  not  ask 
you  to  give  up  what  was  yours.  But,  oh,  don't  you  realize 
what  this  means  to  me?  When  a  man  loves  a  woman, 
half  the  joy  of  loving  her  is  taken  away  from  him  if  he 
cannot  work  for  her,  give  all  to  her,  be  all  to  her !  It's  the 
law  of  love  between  man  and  woman.  Some  try  to  deny, 
but  they  find  the  heartaches  just  the  same.  Thank  God,  I 
need  not  share  with  another  in  doing  for  you,  my  Evan- 
geline!  These  two  hands  are  yours,  and  from  these  two 
hands  shall  come  that  which  makes  life  sweet.  I'm  your 
husband  now — all  that  the  word  husband  means!  That 
money  frightened  me.  Come  to  me  now,  rich  in  love  and 
confidence.  Oh,  my  rich  wife!" 

Many  minutes  passed  before  they  gave  thought  to  the 
presence  of  Anaxagoras  Billedeau. 

He  was  on  his  feet,  clasping  his  fiddle  to  his  breast, 
trying  hard  not  to  stare  at  this  scene  of  rapture,  but  blink 
ing  side  glances  while  he  waited  in  an  agony  of  panic. 

"Ah,  I  salute  you  and  compliment  you,  Anaxagoras," 
cried  Aldrich.  "You  are  the  rich  man  of  the  border. 
You  have  plenty  of  money  now." 

"That  is  not  so,"  declared  the  fiddler,  choking. 

396 


THE   GIFTS    OF   JUNE 

"Here,  don't  you  realize  that  you  are  doubting  my 
wife's  word? — my  wife,  understand!  We  have  just  been 
married,  Billedeau!  Have  you  not  heard  what  she  said? 
I  say,  you  are  a  rich  man." 

The  fiddler  straightened.     He  squared  his  shoulders. 

"I  was  chosen  by  the  great  Representative  Clifford  to 
carry  the  message  to  the  reverenced  bishop.  I  went.  I 
suffered.  I  had  money,  then,  for  a  time.  That  money 
was  ever  a  terror  by  night  and  a  burden  by  day.  I,  who 
have  always  loved  men,  drew  aside  from  them  when  that 
money  was  in  my  pocket.  It  made  life  bitter.  Do  you 
think  I  shall  now  be  the  rich  man  and  go  along  the  bor 
der  and  be  hated  by  all,  while  I  fear  all?  Shall  I  spoil  all 
the  short  time  that  is  left  to  me  in  this  life?  No!"  He 
waved  his  old  fiddle  above  his  head.  His  voice  rose  till 
its  tones  cracked  in  anger  and  protest  and  frightened 
grief.  "By  holy  Saint  Xavier,  I  will  not  be  so  abused!" 

In  all  the  years  no  one  ever  before  had  seen  such  anger 
on  the  face  of  Anaxagoras  Billedeau  or  heard  such  passion 
in  his  tones. 

He  was  now  fairly  at  bay.  His  lips  were  rolled  from 
his  teeth;  he  beat  the  fiddle  frantically  about  his  head,  as 
though  warding  off  some  terrible  thing. 

Aldrich  went  to  him,  pressed  his  hands  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  rusty  old  coat,  and  urged  the  fiddler  until  he  sat 
down  on  the  grass.  Aldrich  sat  beside  him,  and  Evan- 
geline  kneeled  on  the  other  side  and  took  Billedeau's  hand. 

"Listen,  Billedeau,  we  shall  understand  this  thing! 
You  must  not  think  you  are  to  carry  all  that  money  in 
your  pocket — all  the  money  of  a  rich  man.  But,  as  you 
have  gone  up  and  down  the  land  in  your  buckboard,  have 
you  not  often  wished  you  could  help  the  poor  people 
even  more  than  you  helped  them  by  the  merry  tunes 
from  your  fiddle?" 

397 


THE    RED    LANE 

"Yes,  you  have  wished  so,  Monsieur  Billedeau,"  cried 
Evangeline.  "For  did  not  you  tell  me  on  the  long  road 
that  you  would  like  to  see  curtains  in  the  windows  of  the 
little  houses  and  ribbons  for  the  hair  of  the  children  on 
the  feast  days?  Ah,  yes,  you  said  that  the  poor  people 
needed  something  more  than  pork  and  corn-meal — they 
needed  and  they  longed  for  things  for  the  soul  as  well  as 
for  the  stomach,  for  they  are  French  people.  You  said 
all  that  to  me,  and  you  told  me  you  would  go  about  here 
and  there  and  give  such  gifts  if  you  were  the  rich  man." 

"There  have  been  many  losses  in  the  valley,  Billedeau," 
said  the  husband,  on  the  other  side.  "The  poor  people 
need  furniture  and  a  loan  here  and  there  for  lumber  for 
new  houses.  You  need  not  carry  much  money  in  your 
pocket.  Notary  Pierre  understands  all  the  business. 
He  is  faithful  and  honest.  You  can  search  among  the 
people  for  those  who  need.  Then  you  can  go  to  Notary 
Pierre  and  say,  '  I  will  take  such  and  such  of  that  money 
that  you  and  I  hold  as  trustees  in  behalf  of  the  soul  of 
Vetal  Beaulieu,  who  is  now  sorry.'  Yes,  Anaxagoras, 
that  will  be  it!  You  shall  be  a  trustee.  It  shall  be  for 
Vetal  Beaulieu's  soul !  You  shall  return  the  money  to  the 
poor  people  carefully,  thriftily,  and  faithfully.  Come  to 
me  for  advice — go  to  P£re  Leclair.  We  all  can  help  you." 

"And  I  shall  be  glad  every  day,  Monsieur  Billedeau, 
because  my  father's  money  is  doing  good  through  your 
hands,"  said  Evangeline,  pressing  the  fiddler's  palm.  "I 
ask  you  to  do  this,  good  friend!  For  my  sake  do  this!" 

"It  is  a  great  work — a  holy  task,"  faltered  Billedeau, 
at  last.  "Forgive  me.  I  was  angry.  I  did  not  under 
stand.  I  was  afraid.  It  was  said  the  money  was  for  me. 
It  is  for  the  poor  people,  eh?" 

"It  is  yours,  so  that  you  may  help  the  poor  people  as 
you  ride  here  and  there,"  said  Aldrich. 

398 


THE   GIFTS   OF   JUNE 

"I  do  not  pray  God  to  give  me  wisdom  in  that  work — 
I  have  no  head  for  wisdom,"  confessed  the  old  man.  "I 
will  ask  you  and  Pere  Leclair  and  the  notary  for  wise 
advice.  On  that  I  shall  depend.  But  I  will  sit  here  for 
a  time  and  ask  God  to  give  me  many  more  days  among 
my  poor  people  so  that  I  may  perform  this  holy  task." 

The  man  and  wife  heard  the  strains  of  the  old  fiddle 
singing  softly  in  the  dusk  behind  them  as  they  walked 
hand  in  hand  up  the  lane  from  the  meadows;  walked 
from  under  the  stars  to  rest  under  the  roses  with  which 
Madame  Ouillette  had  decked  their  new  home. 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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